Cartwheels and Corkscrews
by kalea87
Summary: CSI encounters a perplexing serial killer...that Catherine knows?
1. Murder

Cartwheels and Corkscrews  
  
by desertgurl  
  
dedicated to Alison – for obvious reasons  
  
Author's Note: CSI and the characters on the show do not, have not, and will not ever belong to me. This story is for the enjoyment of the FanFiction readers, and I am not getting any money from it. (Really too bad, huh?) Anyway, please don't sue me. It's really not nice and since I am not getting any money from my FanFictions, you wouldn't get anything if you were to sue me. So get over it. And read and review my story! (Just so you know, I am an evil person and will not post the next chapter until I get reviews.) Enjoy.  
  
1 Chapter One: Murder  
  
The lights of Las Vegas shone and danced throughout the sky. The casinos were filled with the clinking of coins, and it was the graveyard shift at CSI. Gil Grissom, the supervisor, had a lot to do. There had been five deaths so far that night – two in a car accident, one pedestrian victim of the crash, one suicide, and one that had just been called in not five minutes ago. A death at a hotel.  
  
Grissom handed out the assignments, and then headed off to the hotel with Catherine. He opened the door to the hotel suite and stared at the crime scene. A young blonde woman sat on the couch. At first glance, nothing seemed to be wrong. They wondered if they had been directed to the wrong room. The woman on the couch seemed to be alive. The room was spotless - no sign of struggle. No blood. Grissom and Catherine rounded the couch to look at the woman. Catherine let out a horrified gasp and her hand flew to her mouth. Grissom's eyes went wide and he took a step back.  
  
The woman was definitely dead. Her face was torn beyond recognition. Her eyes were gouged out, the eyeballs completely gone. Her lips were almost torn off her face. Her cheeks were littered with gaping holes. Her entire face was deep red, soaked in blood.  
  
When Grissom got over the shock of the woman's almost-flesh-less face, he took in the rest of the scene. The woman's designer dress had only a few bloodstains. Her golden hair was smooth and perfectly styled. She was sitting up straight on the couch, her ankles crossed.  
  
"Somebody sure cleaned up after themselves," Catherine mused.  
  
"Yes, but the question is: how did they manage it?" Grissom looked around the fancy suite for Detective Jim Brass. He heard a soft sob from the neighboring room, and followed the noise. Brass was in the corner, talking to two hotel employees: a man in a crisp uniform, most likely room service, and a woman in a maid's uniform who was weeping.  
  
"Brass," Grissom greeted the detective.  
  
"Grissom, this is Edward Jones and Ellen Simpson. Edward was delivering the deceased's dinner. He's room service. Ellen's a night maid here. They found the body."  
  
"Do we have an ID?" Catherine came in to the room.  
  
"The deceased's name was Tamara Richards. She booked the room here for two weeks, but she was only here for one." Brass informed them.  
  
"Ms. Simpson?" Grissom bent down to speak to her face-to-face. "Can you tell me how you found Ms. Richards?"  
  
Instead of answering, the maid burst into frenzied sobs. Edward bent down to comfort her. Grissom glanced at Brass, who waved him away.  
  
"She's been like this the whole time," Brass murmured to Grissom. "When ever someone talks to her, she starts crying. And Edward's pretty broken up about it, too. Doesn't say much."  
  
"We'll let them calm down a bit." Catherine said. "Come on, Grissom, let's go back into the other room."  
  
The hotel room was clean, neat and a terribly frustrating crime scene.  
  
"Let's see if she was killed in the room," Catherine suggested. "Then we'll at least have something to go on." She sighed. This was going to be a long night.  
  
Catherine sprayed luminol all over the carpet near the couch, and turned on the light, revealing the cleaned-up blood splatters that covered the carpet in all directions.  
  
"That's a damn good cleaning job," muttered Catherine, revealing more and more blood patterns.  
  
"Wait," Grissom interrupted. "Go back." Moving the light back over the patterns on the carpet.  
  
"It looks like…" she trailed off.  
  
"Writing?" Grissom suggested.  
  
"Writing."  
  
  
  
"The blood was used to write a date on the carpet: March 26, 1963. And then the killer cleaned it up, leaving no trace of blood to the naked eye."  
  
"But us criminalists…we're too damn smart!" Warrick joked. The other cases that night had been easy. Evidence everywhere. All eyewitness accounts checked out. Virtual sign-offs. The group had gathered to hear about the mysterious murder at the hotel.  
  
"I think that we – the criminalists, that is – were supposed to see it. Anyway, Sara's researching the date and our victim's name, Tamara Richards, to find some connection between the two, give us a lead. The maid, Ms. Simpson, is still having trouble speaking without bursting into tears and the room service guy, Mr. Jones, isn't much better…if anyone wants to try, they're with Brass." No one looked eager to speak with Ms. Simpson or Mr. Jones, who both already had a bit of a reputation at CSI, and everyone was relieved when Sara came in.  
  
"I found something. Nothing interesting, I guess."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"March 26, 1963 is her birthday."  
  
"Oh, now that's a help!" Nick said sarcastically.  
  
Throwing Nick a Look, Sara continued. "I searched for anything else happening on that day – something with relevance to the murder – and found nothing. Sorry guys. But –"  
  
"Grissom." Brass stood in the doorway. "I think they can talk now. Maybe."  
  
Grissom sighed, but followed Brass.  
  
  
  
Mr. Jones cleared his throat. "I was delivering her dinner…same time as every other night. I went up and knocked, but she didn't answer. She had always told us to just come in if she had called for us, so I did. I saw her on the couch and said hello…she never was much of a talker, so I just thought she was being quiet. I left the cart near her table and was just about to leave when Ellen arrived."  
  
Ms. Simpson looked up nervously, but held back her sobs and began. "She said she wanted clean towels every night before dinner. But tonight, the manager paged me. Someone on the third floor was sick, and I had to go clean up the mess." Ms. Simpson made a face, remembering. "So, I was late going up – the guy on third made a real mess – and I was afraid I was late with her towels, so I rushed up. I saw Edward in there with her dinner and knew I was late. I didn't want to get in trouble…" The maid's voice was beginning to crack, and Grissom knew tears were coming. "S-she was sitting on the couch…she looked all right. I greeted her, b-but she didn't answer, so I thought she was mad. I went over to apologize and –" Ms. Simpson burst into tears. Grissom couldn't help himself. He rolled his eyes.  
  
  
  
"Nothing." Grissom had returned from talking with the 'witnesses.' "They know nothing. You can tell by looking at Ms. Simpson that she's telling the truth. And Mr. Jones…I think he's just scared of losing his job over this."  
  
"Hey Grissom," Sara said re-entering the room with photographs in her hand. "Look at this." Sara pointed to one of the pictures of the blood patterns from the hotel room. "They look like handprints. What do you think?"  
  
"Sure looks like it."  
  
"Definitely."  
  
"Yep. Anyone want to go back to the hotel with me?" Catherine asked.  
  
"I'll go," Sara volunteered. "If that's okay." She looked at Grissom.  
  
"Go."  
  
  
  
"Where are the handprints?" Catherine asked as she and Sara entered the hotel room.  
  
"From the pictures, it looks like they are over here." Sara pointed to the carpet to the side of the couch. Sure enough, as Catherine checked with the light, the handprints showed up. "Look that way," Sara said suddenly, gesturing towards the door. The handprints continued from the couch to the door.  
  
"What the…?" Catherine frowned.  
  
"I have no idea," Sara said, and suddenly got one. "Wait – what if…? No, no that'd never work."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What if the killer walked out on his hands?"  
  
Catherine frowned doubtfully, looked at the handprints again, and sighed. "I think that's the only logical explanation for this."  
  
Sara laughed. "Are you sure logical is the right word?"  
  
Catherine smiled. "No, I suppose it's not. Do you think the handprints continue into the hallway?"  
  
"I don't know." Sara opened the door and paused. "Did you and Grissom check for prints?"  
  
"The door was wiped clean. Nothing. No prints anywhere."  
  
"What about the handprints? They have prints right?"  
  
"How are we going to lift prints off carpet?"  
  
Sara smiled. "The hallway is tiled."  
  
They opened the door of the hotel room and began to check for the handprints in the hall.  
  
"What are you doing?" A police officer guarding the scene glared at them.  
  
"Trying to solve this murder. What are you doing?" Catherine snapped at him.  
  
"We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Sara said, flashing her I.D. The police officer backed off.  
  
"What is with you, Catherine? You're biting everyone's head off!" Sara hissed.  
  
Catherine sighed. "Sorry," she said, without looking up or offering explanation. "Look!" she cried. "Here are the handprints again." The handprints went all the way down the hall to the staircase.  
  
"You don't think…" Sara gazed at the long stairwell.  
  
"We've got to check." Catherine sighed again.  
  
  
  
Back at CSI, Catherine and Sara shared what they had found. "The handprints went down all five flights of stairs and out the Emergency Exit on the first floor. But once outside, the pattern changed. Two handprints, two footprints, two handprints, two footprints – all in blood, and they were sideways."  
  
"So this will be easy, right? Match fingerprints and the soles of the shoes…right?" Nick looked from Catherine to Sara, trying to read their faces.  
  
"Plastic bags on the shoes, gloves on the hands," Sara reported quietly.  
  
"You're telling me that a killer bloody gloves on his hands and bloody bags on his feet walked down five flights of stairs on his hands and no one saw him?!?" Grissom was more than a little skeptical.  
  
"They have very nice elevators at this hotel," Catherine explained helplessly.  
  
"And the blood was cleaned up afterwards?"  
  
"Yes, except for the blood outside. There was no trace of it in the building without luminol."  
  
"This is impossible," Grissom mumbled.  
  
"It gets worse," Brass said, appearing in the doorway again. 


	2. The Eyes

1 Chapter Two: The Eyes  
  
"Tell me you didn't just say it gets worse."  
  
"I did," Brass replied reluctantly. The group sighed, almost in unison.  
  
Grissom took a deep breath. "How does it get worse?"  
  
  
  
Grissom and Catherine were at the crime scene. The small apartment looked very different from the expensive hotel room. But the crime scene was the same: clean, neat, not a trace of struggle, and a young blonde woman sitting motionless on the couch, her face away from the door. Catherine and Grissom braced themselves as they rounded the couch. As Brass said, the crime scene was the same. It was probably the same killer. But the murders were only an hour apart.  
  
They rounded the couch. The woman's face was torn and bloody, just as the first victim's had been. But there was one thing different. The eyes.  
  
Tamara Richard's eyes had been completely removed from her skull, and no trace of them had been left. But this victim's eyes remained. Her eyeballs had hole in them, but they remained in her skull. The pure blue of the eyes was vivid against the dark red blood of the rest of her face.  
  
"The victim's name is Elizabeth Martin," Brass announced, coming up behind the two CSIs. He held up her driver's license. "Three things of interest on here: her name, her birthday, and the color of her eyes."  
  
"Her eyes?"  
  
"Yes. Her eyes are listed as green," Brass explained, handing Grissom the Nevada license. "Her birthday is March 26, 1976. Not the same year as Ms. Richard's, but the same day."  
  
Catherine was examining Elizabeth Martin's eyes. "Do we have a murder weapon?"  
  
"No, not specifically. Probably just a knife."  
  
"It can't be a knife," Catherine protested. "Look at this, Gil." She pointed to the small, round holes puncturing the eyes and face. "Knife blades aren't round."  
  
  
  
"The handprints were there again, too. Same pattern, same size. Same everything," Catherine finished with frustration.  
  
"Nothing came up to connect Tamara Richards and Elizabeth Martin. The only thing they have in common seems to be their birthday and their hair color," Sara reported when Catherine and Grissom had arrived back at CSI. "Except –"  
  
"What do you think he used as a murder weapon?" Catherine interrupted.  
  
"Well," Nick spoke up, "he didn't use a gun or a knife."  
  
"Oh, now that's a help," Sara mocked.  
  
Grissom ignored them. "What's round and sharp and would make a good murder weapon?"  
  
"Is this the kind of thing you think about on your days off?" Warrick joked.  
  
"Hey guys," Greg popped his head in the room. "Any leads on the case or do you all need alcohol?" Everyone laughed except Grissom – he was deep in thought  
  
"That's it," Grissom said suddenly. "A corkscrew."  
  
"What are you talking about, Gris?" Sara asked, genuinely confused.  
  
"The murder weapon. It's a corkscrew."  
  
"A corkscrew? A killer who walks on his hands? I don't know about this, guys. We're stretching it, here," Nick pointed out.  
  
"He has to get their eyes out somehow," Catherine said.  
  
"Ugh." Sara shuddered and rubbed her eyes. "That is the sickest thing." She shuddered again.  
  
"Sara," Grissom said, coming out of deep thought. "What color were Tamara Richard's eyes?"  
  
  
  
"Grissom," Brass' voice crackled over the cell phone. "You're not going to like this."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's another one."  
  
  
  
The crime scene was the same again.  
  
"Her name's Antoinette McPherson, better know as Nettie. She fits the profile – blond, birthday March 26, same murder."  
  
"What color are her eyes?" Grissom asked immediately.  
  
"The ones in her skull or the ones she had when she got her license?" Brass replied, without missing a beat.  
  
"Both."  
  
"I don't know about the ones in her skull – that's your job – the ones listed on her license, though, are brown."  
  
"These are green," Catherine called to the men from where she was examining the corpse. "This is unbelievable," she murmured to herself. 


	3. The Missing Pieces

1 Chapter Three: The Missing Pieces  
  
"We've got to put all the pieces of this puzzle together, before someone else gets killed."  
  
Grissom, Catherine, Sara, Nick, and Warrick were all looking very frustrated. They just wanted this to be over.  
  
"What do we have?" Grissom asked the group.  
  
"Three victims, with no known connections except their birthdays – but not the year – and the color of their hair."  
  
"Their eyes were removed from their skulls and placed into the next victim's eye sockets."  
  
"We ran a test on the holes in the eyes – they were removed with corkscrews."  
  
"Oh, that's just sick."  
  
"What about the killer? Do we know anything about him?"  
  
"For starters, we don't know if the killer is a him or a her. We know the killer is smart. The killer uses plastic gloves, and every crime scene has been cleaned very professionally."  
  
"The killer can walk on his hands for a very long time and he or she can turn cartwheels."  
  
"Cartwheels?"  
  
"Remember, the pattern of hands and feet outside of the hotels? They were formed by doing a series of cartwheels."  
  
Silence engulfed the room.  
  
"So, all we have is cartwheels and corkscrews?"  
  
"No," said Sara. "We have something else."  
  
"Sara," Catherine spoke up for the first time, stopping Sara.  
  
"My birthday…" Catherine trailed off and took a deep breath. "March 26, 1963. It's my birthday." 


	4. Suspicions

1 Chapter Four: Suspicions  
  
The room fell silent. It was too soon after the Paul Milander incident to deal with this. Birthdays caused problems.  
  
"And…?" Grissom knew there was more to this.  
  
"On the day I was born, there was an 'accident' in my neighborhood. My next- door neighbors were the Fieldings – Mrs. Diana Fielding and her five-year- old son, Kyle. Mrs. Fielding was a blonde model, and she was gorgeous. Her husband left two years before because she was an alcoholic and refused to get help. My parents knew Mrs. Fielding was an alcoholic and that she abused Kyle, but they never did anything. And on the day I was born, Mrs. Fielding drank a whole bottle of wine. And then…and then…and then she…"  
  
Catherine stopped and took a deep breath. Everyone was listening intently, but Catherine couldn't bring herself to look at any of them.  
  
"Kyle was watching television and his mother came in. She had the corkscrew in her hand…My father saw them in the emergency room. His mother was frantic – screaming and sobbing. Kyle's right eye was gone. My parents never knew what had happened, but they suspected. When I was thirteen, Kyle ran away and joined the circus – literally. My parents told me what had happened the day I was born and why Kyle had a glass eye. His real eye was green, but his glass eye was blue. I was told never to go near Mrs. Fielding's house since she was so dangerous." Catherine looked up. "We went to the circus once when I was in high school. All my friends came. There was one clown who stood on his hands the entire time. He looked straight at me and I saw his eyes – one blue and one green. I knew it was Kyle."  
  
Catherine stopped. "I think it's him."  
  
No one said anything for the longest time. Catherine had managed to keep from crying and the others were shocked by her story. Grissom was the first to speak.  
  
"But Catherine…why?"  
  
"Kyle was always mean and vengeful. He was always in trouble at school and at home. People avoided him. And he blamed it all on his mother."  
  
She stopped and looked straight at Grissom. "I talked to him once, after the circus. He said he would never forgive his mother. He said he would have revenge. I told him I wished I could have helped him escape the abuse. A week later his mother's house burned down, and she died. The police said it was arson. CSIs swarmed the house for a week. Mrs. Fielding had not been killed in the blaze. She was killed just like Tamara Richards, Elizabeth Martin, and Antoinette McPherson. Her eyes were gone. The police found something though. Mrs. Fielding was holding a jar in her hands when she died. The jar had an eyeball in it. Preserved. It was Kyle's."  
  
Catherine looked around the room. "Kyle's circus left, and he was never charged with his mother's murder, even though the whole neighborhood knew he was responsible. The police couldn't get him on anything; they had no evidence. Kyle's circus didn't come back to town, but now it's in Las Vegas. He's here. He did it."  
  
"We can't prove it," Nick said. "We have no evidence."  
  
"He's a bragger," Catherine replied.  
  
"All right. Who wants to go to the circus?" 


	5. The Circus

1 Chapter Five: The Circus  
  
"I hate the circus," Warrick mumbled to himself as he approached the tent. They were all going: Grissom, Catherine, Nick, Warrick, and Sara. Catherine was the one who would talk to the suspect, Kyle. She had a recorder to tape what he said. Catherine felt a bit like a traitor as she pulled into the parking lot. She had always been on Kyle's side before. She was going to betray his trust. He is a serial killer, she told herself, over and over. He killed people. He betrayed your trust, too.  
  
Catherine was alone. They had all gone 'alone,' in different cars, so no one would see them together. Police were pretty much swarming the place, mostly plainclothes so the customers wouldn't suspect anything. And so Kyle wouldn't suspect anything. Catherine sighed and slammed her car door shut. She made her way through the crowd to the circus tent. She needed a good seat. The other CSIs were going to be collecting evidence – that is, if there was any. Catherine was getting a very bad feeling about this.  
  
A sudden gust of wind blew her hair across her face. Blonde. I fit the victim profile, Catherine realized. No good can come of this. She ducked into the tent and found a good seat. As she watched the crowd wait for the performance to start, she realized some good could come of this. A murder could be brought to justice. That's what I want, right? I want justice. Catherine closed her eyes tight. When she opened them, the world seemed to have changed. The innocent audience sat, unknowing, laughing and smiling. Catherine's trained eyes easily found the plainclothes policemen wandering around and, of course, her colleagues.  
  
Music poured into the tent and the show began. Acrobats, lions, tigers, elephants, horseback riders, the acts kept coming. The audience laughed. Catherine did not. She was looking for a clown. A clown with one green eye and one blue eye. A clown named Kyle.  
  
The happy music was beginning to make Catherine sick. She was not in the mood. She wanted to scream at the people next to her to stop laughing, that it wasn't funny. A new sickeningly happy tune came on over the loud speakers and the clowns tumbled out into the center ring. Catherine felt herself stiffen. One clown tumbled out and bounced right up onto his hands. Kyle, Catherine thought immediately. The clown came closer to her, and she leaned forward to look at his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, the clown froze and fell over, causing the audience to erupt into peals of laughter. The clown jumped up, only to fall again. The clown spun around so he was facing Catherine. She gasped, thinking he had recognized her. But he only reached up to the flower on his shirt and squirted the kids in front of her. She sighed in relief, and looked closely at the clown's face. It was Kyle, all right. He turned and waved at the kids, took one over-exaggerated step, and fell down again.  
  
The music changed again, but this time it wasn't quite so happy. It was one of those "dangerous" acts, but Catherine had no interest in it. She got up and headed towards the ladies' restroom. Once outside the tent, Catherine looked around. She saw Grissom casually checking out the food selection at the cart set up outside. Catherine walked up beside him and ordered cotton candy.  
  
"Blue," she said to the salesman, "definitely blue." She glanced sideways at Grissom as she paid for the cotton candy and, catching his eye, nodded slightly. She was going in. 


	6. Betrayal

1 Chapter Six: Betrayal  
  
Catherine headed towards the performers' area. She didn't really know how she was going to get in and talk to Kyle, but she was determined.  
  
"Excuse me, ma'am," a large security official said, stopping her. "You can't go back there. It's for performers only."  
  
"Oh, I know," Catherine said, putting on her sweetest smile. "I have a childhood friend in this circus and I haven't seen him for a long time. Can I go talk to him?" She looked up with innocent eyes.  
  
"Who's your friend?"  
  
"Kyle. Kyle Fielding. He's a clown."  
  
"Uh-huh…" the guard didn't seem too convinced, but he picked up his radio. "I got a lady here who says she knows Kyle…yeah, the clown…childhood friends or something…okay."  
  
He looked at Catherine again. "What's your name?"  
  
"Catherine." The guard raised an eyebrow. "Catherine Willows."  
  
"Says her name's Catherine Willows," he said into the radio. "They're going to check," the guard said to Catherine. "It'll only take a minute."  
  
"Great," Catherine said with a smile, and ate some of her cotton candy. It was too sweet and Catherine was beginning to feel sick, but she kept smiling.  
  
The guard's radio crackled. "Okay, you can go in. Kyle's trailer is the green one, over there."  
  
"Thanks so much," Catherine said with another smile, and headed off to Kyle's trailer. As soon as the guard was out of sight, Catherine threw her blue cotton candy away. It was way too sweet.  
  
Catherine reached into her pocket, pressed "record" on the mini tape player, and knocked on the old trailer's door.  
  
"Catherine?" Kyle poked his head out the door. Some of his clown makeup remained around the edges of his face. Catherine put on another smile.  
  
"Hi, Kyle."  
  
"What brings you to the neighborhood?"  
  
"I live here now," Catherine explained, shrugging. "Saw your circus was in town, and came to see it…for old times' sake, I guess."  
  
Kyle smiled. "Did you enjoy the show?"  
  
"Yeah. You were really good. Do you walk on your hands all the time?"  
  
"Well, not all the time. I can stay up the longest out of all the clowns, so I am always the upside-down one. What are you doing for work these days?"  
  
"I'm…I'm a, um, criminalist."  
  
"Wow, in Vegas too. Must be exciting."  
  
"Yeah, there's always something to do," Catherine said truthfully, trying desperately to think of a way to turn the conversation back to Kyle. "So, how's life?"  
  
"Better," Kyle said. "I think it was that town, ya know? All those bad memories. I had to get out."  
  
"Have you been back?"  
  
"No way. What about you? When did you leave that hell hole?"  
  
Catherine took a deep breath. He was turning the conversation back to her. "When I was sixteen."  
  
"Damn," Kyle whistled. "A bit young, don't you think?"  
  
"You left pretty young yourself," said Catherine, getting defensive.  
  
"That I did. But let's leave the past behind us. Do you want a drink?"  
  
"Sure." As Kyle moved to get some drinks, Catherine took the opportunity to look around the trailer. It was old, small and run down. There wasn't much in it. Costumes and makeup were piled onto the table beside Catherine. She turned and looked down the short hallway. Nothing.  
  
"Would you do the honors? I've been saving this for a special occasion." Kyle's voice frightened Catherine and she turned sharply. Kyle gesturing to a bottle of wine on the counter and he held out a corkscrew for Catherine, who startled. She looked at the tip of the corkscrew and tried to imagine putting it into someone's eye.  
  
"I – I've got to go," Catherine muttered and backed out of the trailer. She hurried out of the performer's area and into the crowds, almost running right into Warrick.  
  
"Warrick! God, don't scare me like that!"  
  
"Scare you? You walked into me! What's wrong? Did you find Kyle?"  
  
"I talked to him…small talk, you know. He offered me a drink…he had a corkscrew! So, I left."  
  
"Calm down, Catherine. In order to open a bottle of wine, you need a corkscrew. Did he admit to anything?"  
  
"N-no. But, the corkscrew…"  
  
"Catherine, that doesn't mean anything! Calm down! Let's go find Grissom."  
  
"Catherine! Hey, Catherine, wait!" Kyle came running towards them from the performer's area.  
  
"And that's my cue to leave," Warrick muttered. "Don't worry, Cath. I'll be right over there. This place is swarming with cops. You'll be fine." Warrick slipped into the crowd as Kyle approached Catherine.  
  
"Catherine, are you all right?" Kyle had a genuine look of worry on his face.  
  
"How dare you?" Catherine couldn't take it anymore. She blew up in his face. "How dare you act so concerned? You act like nothing is wrong!"  
  
Kyle was more than a little confused and Catherine's little show was beginning to attract attention. "Can we talk about this in my trailer?"  
  
"No! You'll kill me like the rest of them! You – you –" Catherine struggled for words. She took a deep breath. "You got away with it once, but you won't get away with it this time." Her voice was calm, but her eyes flashed dangerously.  
  
"Catherine?"  
  
"You know what I'm talking about. That day your mother died. You were responsible, weren't you?"  
  
Kyle looked at the ground. "I…I –"  
  
"You did it, didn't you? Admit it!"  
  
"I burned the house down, but –"  
  
Catherine motioned with her hands and police swooped in, surrounding them in an instant. "You're under arrest." Catherine said sternly.  
  
"But, Catherine! That was years ago! Don't do this, Catherine, please! I –"  
  
"You killed her just like you killed the other three. But they were innocent, Kyle."  
  
"I didn't –" Kyle stopped suddenly, and his eyes widened.  
  
"You have the right to remain silent," Catherine continued.  
  
"I don't wish to exercise that right," Kyle said stubbornly.  
  
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."  
  
Kyle opened his mouth to add something else to this conversation, but thought better of it. The police led him away.  
  
Warrick appeared suddenly beside Catherine. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Catherine said, shaking her head. "I'm…I'm okay." 


	7. Secrets

1 Chapter Seven: Secrets  
  
"Catherine, we can't get him for this, and you know it," Grissom told her gently.  
  
"Damn it, Gil, we have to!"  
  
"He's only admitted to setting fire to his mother's house."  
  
"Let me talk to him."  
  
"Catherine, are you sure you can do this?"  
  
"Damn it, Gil, don't mess with me."  
  
"Fine." Grissom stepped aside and let Catherine into the room with Kyle and his lawyer.  
  
  
  
"Do you admit to setting your mother's house on fire?"  
  
Kyle looked at his lawyer, who nodded. "Yes."  
  
"Did you know your mother was inside?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Did you kill your mother?"  
  
"No."  
  
Catherine took a deep breath. "Do you know who did?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"I'm afraid I cannot tell you."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I have my reasons."  
  
"Fine. Did you kill Tamara Richards?"  
  
"Who? I never killed anybody."  
  
"Did you kill Elizabeth Martin?"  
  
"I told you, I didn't kill anyone."  
  
"Did you kill Antoinette McPherson?"  
  
"Catherine, I have never heard of these people! I have not killed anyone! Ever! What's going on?"  
  
He was so insistent that Catherine suddenly believed him.  
  
"Damn it," she muttered. "Who killed your mother, Kyle?"  
  
"I can't tell you."  
  
"Why did you burn your mother's house down?"  
  
"To cover for the person who murdered my mother."  
  
Catherine blanched. Kyle's lawyer put his head in his hands.  
  
"What?" Catherine blinked, unbelieving.  
  
"I set fire to my mother's home because I felt that it was necessary to cover for the person who killed my mother and I thought that the fire would destroy any evidence. Unfortunately, it did not."  
  
"Kyle," his lawyer said in a warning tone.  
  
"Shut up. I don't like you," Kyle said back, without looking away from Catherine's steady gaze.  
  
"Kyle," Catherine said pleadingly, "who killed your mother?"  
  
"Catherine, I have been covering for this person for years. I will not stop now."  
  
"Fine," Catherine said in frustration, and left the room.  
  
"Catherine?" Grissom had been listening outside the room.  
  
"I can't believe this," Catherine said slowly. "We have the wrong guy."  
  
Grissom opened his mouth to respond, but his cell phone rang. He looked at Catherine apologetically as he answered.  
  
"Grissom. ... What? … No, we have him here. … Yes, of course. … We'll be right there."  
  
Grissom turned to Catherine. "It's another one."  
  
"What? Another one? You mean…another murder?"  
  
"Yes. Brass said there's something new at the scene. Go get Sara. We're leaving now."  
  
  
  
It was eerie in the hotel room. The crime was the same. The evidence was the same. Sara had already begun looking for the handprints. A beautiful young blonde sat on the couch, facing away from the door. Catherine and Grissom rounded the couch to look at the face. The shredded skin and blooded face no longer shocked Catherine. The eyes no longer shocked her. The eyes that belonged to someone else. The eyes that were removed by a corkscrew. There was only one difference. And Grissom saw it first.  
  
"Catherine. Catherine, it's the…murder weapon."  
  
"The corkscrew?" Catherine whirled around.  
  
On the end table sat a bonsai tree in a small clay pot. Underneath the tree was a red apple. In the apple was a corkscrew.  
  
"Oh my gosh. We have the murder weapon."  
  
"I don't think so," said Grissom, starring at the arrangement. "Do you see it, Catherine?"  
  
"See what?" All Catherine saw was a murder weapon carelessly left at the crime scene.  
  
"Do you remember how Paul Milander put my thumbprint under his?"  
  
"Yes, of course," Catherine was getting ticked off. Grissom was so annoying sometimes. What did that have to do with anything?  
  
"Well, this is something like that. I don't think this is the murder weapon. It's probably the one from room service or something. We'll have to test it, of course, to be sure."  
  
"Get to the point, Grissom."  
  
"Look. It's an apple. Under a tree."  
  
"Grissom!"  
  
"Catherine?" Catherine controlled the urge to smack him. God, he was frustrating.  
  
"It means," Grissom said slowly, "'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' Do you see it now?"  
  
Catherine saw. "But what does it mean?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet."  
  
Catherine closed her eyes. Wonderful. "I'm going to speak with Kyle. He knows something."  
  
  
  
"Kyle," Catherine began slowly. "I…I'm sorry. I jumped to conclusions."  
  
Kyle raised an eyebrow cautiously.  
  
"This is what happened. A serial killer has been on a killing spree. Four women are dead. These women have two things in common. They are blonde and they were born on March 26."  
  
Kyle sucked in his breath. He knew that date.  
  
"The killer gouged each woman's eyes out with a corkscrew –" Kyle shuddered slightly. "– and replaced them with the eyes of the previous victim. The first victim was found without eyes. Each victim was set up to look as if they were sitting normally. The only evidence of violence is the face. The killer exited the crime scene by walking on his hands and cartwheeling outside of the buildings until the prints disappeared." Kyle's eyes widened slightly. He knew something. "The killer wore rubber gloves and plastic bags over his shoes. At the last crime scene we found a red apple with a corkscrew in it placed under a bonsai tree. Grissom believes this means 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' Can you help us?"  
  
Kyle blinked a few times. "You shouldn't jump to conclusions, Catherine. Haven't you learned that?"  
  
"What conclusions?"  
  
"You said the killer was male."  
  
"I did?"  
  
"You used the pronouns 'he' and 'his' and 'him.'"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And Catherine? I'm not an only child." 


	8. Family

1 Chapter Eight: Family  
  
"What? But Kyle…" Catherine's mind spun. It wasn't possible! She had lived next-door to the Fieldings! Kyle was the only child…right? But now he claimed he was not! Catherine tried to pull herself together. She took a deep breath and thought about what she had just been told.  
  
"Kyle," she began slowly, "are you telling me that you know who the killer is?"  
  
"It would seem that I do, wouldn't it?"  
  
"And you're telling me the killer is female?"  
  
"I am only telling you not to jump to conclusions, Catherine."  
  
"You're also telling me that the killer is your sibling?"  
  
"I was simply giving you facts, Catherine."  
  
"The killer is your sister?"  
  
"And she jumps!" Kyle said, mostly to himself.  
  
"What?" Catherine was a bit peeved at this point.  
  
"You jumped to that conclusion. You do not even know if I have a sister, Catherine. Now, go do your thing and figure it out."  
  
Catherine glared at him. "I'm be back."  
  
"Of course you will, Arnold," said Kyle, smiling.  
  
Catherine rolled her eyes and left the room.  
  
  
  
"How annoying is he?" Catherine asked Sara, who had been listening outside the door.  
  
"I think he's funny. I don't know why he is so calm, though. It's kind of unnerving," Sara replied.  
  
"No kidding," Catherine muttered. "We need a background check on his mother."  
  
"Yes, we definitely do," Sara agreed. "I'll check him at the same time."  
  
"Thanks. Good luck." They parted ways, Sara went to get the background check and Catherine went to see Grissom.  
  
  
  
"Grissom, this is impossible!" Catherine began.  
  
"Nonsense."  
  
"Grissom," Catherine said in a warning tone.  
  
"Nothing's impossible."  
  
"Grissom!"  
  
Luckily, before Catherine could actually harm Grissom, Sara walked in. "I got the background checks."  
  
"That was fast," Catherine said, turning all her attention to Sara.  
  
"Yeah. You know, serial killers aren't too popular around here. So, I got the info pretty fast."  
  
"What does it say?"  
  
"You'll never believe this, but…"  
  
  
  
"Kyle!"  
  
"Yes, Catherine?" Once again, Kyle was perfectly calm. It was exceedingly frustrating.  
  
"Kyle, it says here your mother had no children!"  
  
"Does it really?"  
  
"Yes," Catherine hissed.  
  
"Amazing."  
  
"Kyle!"  
  
"Yes, Catherine?"  
  
Catherine tried to calm down enough to breathe. "Kyle, are you willing to answer some of my questions?"  
  
"Of course, Catherine."  
  
"Good. Is Ms. Diana Fielding your biological mother?"  
  
"I think you mean 'was.'"  
  
"Kyle."  
  
Kyle sighed. "Yes, I'm sure of it."  
  
"Did your biological mother have any other off-spring?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"My brother and my sister."  
  
Now, we're getting somewhere, Catherine thought. "Named…?"  
  
"James Edward Fielding. Deceased."  
  
"And your sister?"  
  
"You see," continued Kyle, ignoring Catherine's question, "my mother did not like to have other people involved in her personal life. She never went to the doctor or anything. So none of us kids were ever registered as existing, so you might as well tell your brunette friend to give it up."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You signaled her when I told you James' name. She went to check up on him. She won't find anything."  
  
"Oh. Right." Catherine struggled to remain dignified.  
  
"And, if you look at your background information, Ms. Diana Fielding virtually drops off the face of the earth after her modeling career went belly up. She turned alcoholic, lost her husband, had some kids…all hidden away from the eyes of the law. Only other thing on there is her death. Am I right?"  
  
He was. And Catherine hated it. "Your sister?" she managed to squeak.  
  
"Ah, yes. Isabelle was just like my mother: beautiful, talented, and mentally disturbed."  
  
Catherine blinked. She had been doing that a lot lately.  
  
"Yes, Isabelle was Mother's pride and joy. They did everything together. They drank together, ordered groceries together, and even watched soap operas together. Isabelle was only two years older than I was, but she was the mirror image of my mother. It was frightening, frankly."  
  
"But…" Catherine was stunned.  
  
"My mother decided that after James died I should go to school and get out of her way while she was watching soaps. That's why you only knew about me. I was the only one to ever leave the house."  
  
Catherine blinked again.  
  
"Will that be all, Catherine?"  
  
"Um…yeah," Catherine managed to mutter.  
  
  
  
"And you know what the worst part of this is?" We still have no idea who killed all those women!" Sara pulled at her hair in frustration.  
  
"It could be Isabelle."  
  
"That's great. Someone who's impossible to track down is our serial killer. Oh, goody." Nick's sarcasm was thick and the room fell silent.  
  
"This is going nowhere. I'm going home," Catherine announced.  
  
"But Catherine!"  
  
"You can figure it out. I haven't slept for…God knows how long. Call me if you get anything. My cell phone's on." Catherine got up and left the room.  
  
"She didn't even tell Grissom that she was leaving," Sara mumbled. "Something's wrong."  
  
Suddenly Catherine stormed back into the room. "Has anyone seen my keys?"  
  
"Uh, no, Cath. Sorry," Sara said, bewildered at Catherine's outburst.  
  
"I saw them when you came in, Catherine. You put them in your purse…" Warrick trailed off and motioned to the purse hanging from Catherine shoulder.  
  
"Haven't seen 'em, Cath. Sorry," Nick added quickly.  
  
"Catherine?" the secretary, Elisabeth called from the hallway. "I found a set of keys earlier. Are these yours?"  
  
Catherine whirled around and glared at Elisabeth. "Where did you find them?"  
  
"On the floor. I didn't know whose they were, so I just kept them on the desk and figured whoever lost them would figure it out eventually."  
  
"I didn't lose them," Catherine spat, grabbing the keys from Elisabeth and leaving the building.  
  
"Whoa," Warrick said quietly. "What's with Catherine?" 


	9. Home

1 Chapter Nine: Home  
  
Catherine sighed as she clicked her front door's lock into place. She wasn't tired anymore. She alternated between being so tired she was sleeping on her feet or so mad steam was coming out of her ears. This case was not going well. First of all, she knew a major suspect. Secondly, they had nothing. Nothing at all. No evidence. Nada. Zilch. Not even a real suspect anymore if you thought about it. Pushing her hair out of her face, Catherine made her way into the kitchen and grabbed a caffeine-free Pepsi. She didn't want a caffeine rush to keep her awake.  
  
Catherine slowly walked into her bedroom, turning off lights as she went. Soon, the only light on in the house was a nightlight illuminating the hallway.  
  
She opened her door slowly and flicked on the light. Opening her closet, she noticed her old photo album on the top shelf, covered with dust. Pulling it down, she went over to her bed to look at the photographs inside. Dust covered all the pages and she had to wipe it away in order to make out some of the faces.  
  
Mostly, there were family pictures. Catherine flipped past them quickly. She was looking for something else. Finally, she found the pictures of her old neighborhood. Kids were playing in the street, always smiling and laughing. Then Catherine saw him. In a picture of a neighborhood baseball game, the Fieldings' house was in the background. Kyle's face was pressed to the window, watching the kids play. Brushing away the dust, she studied the house closely. At the next window, a face was pressed up against the glass. Kyle's sister? Isabelle?  
  
A door shut softly somewhere in the house.  
  
"Lindsay?" Catherine called softy. Her daughter was supposed to be at a friend's house for a sleepover tonight. Gently Catherine took the picture out of the album and put it in her pocket. She left the album on her bed and went to go see if Lindsay was home. Catherine walked out into the dark hallway. That's funny, she thought, I could have sworn I left the nightlight on out here. Feeling her way along the hallway, she finally found the light switch and flicked it on. The house was silent. "Lindsay? Are you home?" Catherine walked towards Lindsay's room, turning on lights as she came to them. "Lindsay?" Silence. Catherine opened the door to Lindsay's room and turned on the light. No one was inside. The bed was made and untouched. Catherine shrugged and chalked it up as her imagination. I really need to get some sleep, she thought as she made her way back to her room through the silent house, extinguishing the lights as she went. Catherine had just reached the door to her room when the front door slammed loudly. Catherine jumped and whirled around. Just then, she caught a whiff of smoke. "Oh my god," she muttered and opened her door.  
  
Smoke poured out of the room. "Shit!" Catherine screamed and ran to her kitchen, stumbling in the darkness. She fumbled for the light and grabbed the fire extinguisher and her cell phone. She ran back to her room and went inside, searching for the source of the fire. She could see flames shooting out of her bed. The photo album! She grabbed at the fire extinguisher's handle and finally got it to work. Luckily, the fire hadn't spread beyond her bed and the fire was out in only a few minutes. Coughing, she backed out of her room and opened her cell phone. She dialed the fire department.  
  
"Hello. Yes, my bed was set on fire…No, it's out now. I just want to be sure it's safe and the fire won't re-ignite. … No, I don't smell gas or propane. … Okay … No, I don't know how it happened. I think someone was in my house … No, I don't know why anyone would want to – wait! Um, I'll have to call you back. … Yes, could you send someone over to check? … No, I don't need the police … I don't know who did it, but I'm a criminalist, so …Yes, thank you." She hung up the phone and coughed again, waving the smoke away from her face. Flipping her cell phone open, she dialed Grissom.  
  
"Grissom?"  
  
"Catherine! Are you all right? You left without – "  
  
"Grissom, someone was in my house. They set my bed on fire. I need you over here now. I think it's connected."  
  
"Sure. Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine," Catherine said and then broke into a coughing fit.  
  
"Fine, huh? I'll be there in ten minutes," Grissom said and hung up.  
  
  
  
"Thanks for coming," Catherine said as she greeted Grissom at the door. "The firefighters didn't find anything."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
"Nope. No gas, no propane, no alcohol, not even a match. They can't figure it out. My bed's ruined and my photo album is ash –"  
  
"Your what?"  
  
"My photo album. It had all the pictures of my old house in it."  
  
"And your neighborhood?"  
  
"Yeah. Do you think someone was trying to get rid of evidence?"  
  
"Maybe," Grissom said, walking towards Catherine's room. He coughed as he walked in.  
  
"Are you okay?" Catherine said coming up behind him.  
  
"Fine. It was just smoke."  
  
Grissom went into his 'crime-scene' mode and started looking around. Catherine stood at the door trying to recall what happened.  
  
"I locked the door."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I locked the door. When I came home."  
  
"There are other ways to get into a house, Catherine."  
  
"I know, but I heard the front door slam when they left. I'm sure it was the front door."  
  
"Did you hear them come in?"  
  
"I'm not sure. I heard a door, but I don't know which one. And it might not have been when they came in. They could've been inside for a long time." Catherine shuddered slightly and the thought and was grateful Lindsay hadn't been home. "It could've been a bedroom door or something," Catherine continued. "I thought it was Lindsay, so I got up and…" she trailed off and reached into her pocket.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I think it's what they wanted," Catherine said, holding up the photograph. "Or wanted to destroy." 


	10. Isabelle?

1 Chapter Ten: Isabelle?  
  
"Someone set your bed on fire?"  
  
"Yes, Nick," Catherine said slowly, trying to make him understand. "Someone came into my house and set fire to my photo album which was on my bed. And so my bed is destroyed. Got it?"  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Do you think it was the serial killer?" Sara asked.  
  
"I don't know. Maybe. I think they wanted to destroy this old photograph of my neighborhood, but I had it in my pocket." Catherine slid the picture onto the table so her colleagues could take a look.  
  
"What are we going to do?" Warrick began, puzzled. "We don't have a suspect or evidence."  
  
"Then we need to get one or both," Grissom said firmly. "We're going back to all the crime scenes, including Catherine's house. We might have missed some evidence. Sara you cover the first crime scene, Nick the second, Warrick the third, and I've got the fourth. Catherine, you've got your house. You know it better than anyone." Grissom paused and looked around the table. "We need evidence and we need it now."  
  
  
  
Catherine gathered up her evidence kit and went back home. Luckily, Lindsay's friend had agreed that home was no place for Lindsay right now, and Lindsay was going to stay over there until this whole thing blew over. For Lindsay and her friend, it was an extended slumber party. For Catherine, it was a nightmare. She dusted for prints. Every door and every window and what seemed like her entire room. All of it was dusted for prints. There was nothing.  
  
"Stupid plastic gloves," Catherine murmured. Then something clicked, and she went into the kitchen and looked through the garbage.  
  
A smile crept across her face as Catherine had found what she was looking for. A discarded pair of plastic gloves that seemed identical to the ones she had on herself. Catherine sealed the gloves away safely as evidence. There had to be prints inside. Since she found no more evidence, she went back to the lab to process the gloves.  
  
  
  
Sara examined every square inch of the hotel room where the first murder had taken place. There was nothing there. No prints, no clues, nothing. She took out the pictures of the blood patterns. Sara was getting frustrated. She didn't have anything new. There was nothing here. She looked at the pictures again. Wait, she thought, is that a -?  
  
  
  
Nick stepped into the apartment. The air was stale. He looked around for evidence. He dusted for prints again, but none showed up that hadn't already been found and identified as the owner's. Running his hands through his hair, he crouched down to pick up his kit and get out of there, but something caught his eye. Stuck on one of the upholstery tacks was a small piece of fabric. It was plaid and it looked like it had been caught on the tack and then ripped off. Nick sealed it away in an evidence bag and smiled to himself. They were going to crack this case after all.  
  
  
  
Warrick slowly opened the door. The crime scene looked the same as it had before, minus the body of course. Warrick was determined to find some new evidence. They needed to crack this case. They couldn't let this killer win. Come to think of it, they had a terrible time when any killer won. Everyone was in a bad mood for days. But with this case, Catherine was already beginning to be affected. If she blew up when she couldn't find her keys last night, what if we can't find the killer? Warrick reasoned. CSI might never be the same again. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and got back to looking for evidence. Any evidence.  
  
  
  
Grissom wanted this case over. It was driving them all up a wall. And Catherine couldn't even look at corkscrews anymore. They gave them all chills, come to think of it. The corkscrew that once resided in the break room now had a new home in the dump, and they were all glad. Grissom went right over to the bonsai tree. The corkscrew had been taken to the lab, where it was proven that it wasn't the actual murder weapon. The apple had gone with it, but it had been throw away long ago. The bonsai tree looked just like a normal bonsai tree as Grissom poked around in its branches. Nothing there. He scoured the couch next. Nothing there, either. Grissom got down on his hands and knees and examined the carpet where the bloody handprints were. Nothing there. He proceeded down the staircase, following the killer's path. At the platform between the second floor and the third floor, Grissom felt something tickle his face. He brushed it away, but it came back. When he saw what it was, he smiled. A long blonde hair stuck in the railing. It could've been anyone's hair, but it was caught only about an inch from the platform. Not too many people walk on their hands, right?  
  
  
  
  
  
"Did you find anything yet, Greg?"  
  
"The DNA test on the hair you found should be done in about ten minutes, Grissom. I'll call you."  
  
"Right," Grissom answered, stepping back into the hall to see if Catherine had lifted prints off the gloves she had found. "Catherine!" he called, seeing her down the hall.  
  
"Yeah, Gil?" Catherine didn't look up from the papers she was reading.  
  
"What do you have there?"  
  
"Corkscrew manufacturers…it's hopeless," she said. She had tried tracking the corkscrew they had found at the crime scene through the list, but it was a very popular type, apparently.  
  
"Prints?" Grissom asked.  
  
"What? Oh – I found some, but we haven't finished searching the database." She pointed to the open door she had come out of moments ago and before she could say anything, Grissom disappeared into the room. Catherine shook her head. It was getting personal, and that was never good.  
  
  
  
"Match. Grissom, I've got a match."  
  
"You matched the prints from the glove?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Let me see."  
  
"Grissom, I should warn you –" Grissom snatched the paper out of Sara's hands.  
  
"Greg?!"  
  
"I was going to warn you…" Sara trailed off.  
  
"Greg couldn't do this," Grissom mused, leaving the room. Sara opened her mouth to call after him, but closed it. Grissom wouldn't come back until he talked to Greg.  
  
  
  
"Greg –"  
  
"Look, Grissom, it's only been two minutes! I told you ten. I said I'd call – "  
  
"Greg."  
  
"What?" Greg looked up, sensing something in his supervisor's voice.  
  
"Greg, we got a match on the prints."  
  
"That's good…isn't it?" Grissom's face told Greg it wasn't.  
  
"Greg, they're yours."  
  
"My prints?!?"  
  
"Yes, Greg."  
  
"But how can that be? You don't think I'm the killer do you? I'm not! I just –"  
  
"Greg, have you worn plastic gloves recently?"  
  
Greg frowned, trying to remember. "I was wearing some for a test the other day. I threw them away."  
  
"I'm waiting for that DNA test," Grissom said and left the room, leaving Greg staring after him.  
  
  
  
"Kyle," Catherine began.  
  
"Yes, Catherine?"  
  
"Kyle, we would like a sample of your DNA for comparison."  
  
"Comparison to what, exactly?"  
  
"A hair found at the crime scene." Catherine conveniently left out the fact that the hair was long and blond while Kyle's was short and brown.  
  
"Sure," Kyle agreed.  
  
  
  
Grissom's cell phone rang.  
  
"Greg?" he asked.  
  
"Um, Grissom? This is Nick."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Well, I found a piece of fabric at the crime scene. It's black, green, red, and white plaid. It shouldn't be hard to match with whatever it's from. I'm running tests now."  
  
"Good. Call me if you get anything."  
  
"Bye, Grissom. And be nice to Greg."  
  
"I'm always – oh, all right." Grissom hung up.  
  
  
  
"Greg?"  
  
"It's still not done!!!" Greg turned around. "Oh, sorry, Catherine. I thought –"  
  
"You thought it was Grissom? He's just eager to solve this and get the killer behind bars."  
  
"So am I, but…" Greg gestured to the lab equipment.  
  
"I know, but Greg –"  
  
"You have something for me don't you?"  
  
"Kyle's DNA to test against the hair Grissom found."  
  
"But the hair was long and blonde!"  
  
"If it was his sister…"  
  
"Right." Greg smiled. "I got it. Thanks Catherine. Just don't expect it to be done any time soon."  
  
  
  
"It's been a long day," Warrick moaned.  
  
"No kidding," Sara agreed.  
  
"This is what we have," Grissom said, getting right down to business, "phony prints, probably planted to confuse us."  
  
"Phony? They're Greg's!"  
  
"Greg isn't the murderer, guys."  
  
"Someone just took his discarded gloves and planted them at Catherine's house," Grissom explained.  
  
"What if it is Greg?"  
  
"Catherine! You don't believe that do you?"  
  
"No, I'm just trying not to jump," Catherine told them.  
  
"You're what?"  
  
"Trying not to jump to conclusions."  
  
"Okay…"  
  
Grissom cleared his throat. "We have a piece of fabric that isn't any good without the article of clothing it came from, most likely a shirt since the killer walked on his or her hands –"  
  
"– and there are very few people willing to wear that color plaid pants, even if they are mentally disturbed."  
  
Grissom's glare silenced further comments.  
  
"What about the DNA?"  
  
Grissom frowned. "Greg's not done with it yet."  
  
Grissom's cell phone rang.  
  
Warrick smiled. "Speak of the devil," he quipped.  
  
"Grissom. … Thanks, Greg. I'll be right there." He flipped his phone closed.  
  
"Don't you mean 'we'll be right there'?" Sara raised an eyebrow.  
  
Grissom sighed. "Come on."  
  
  
  
"I wasn't expecting a party," Greg said as all five of them walked into the lab.  
  
"What are the results, Greg?"  
  
Greg handed Grissom the results and said, "You were right Catherine, they're relatives. But it isn't Kyle's hair."  
  
"Really?" Sara asked. "No kidding?"  
  
Greg smiled. "No kidding."  
  
Grissom was studying the results. "We have the evidence without the suspect," he said.  
  
"That is a little backward."  
  
"Now all we need to do is find Isabelle –"  
  
"Who doesn't legally exist."  
  
" – But first," Grissom continued, ignoring the interruption, "go home and sleep."  
  
This little announcement was met by cheers.  
  
"Thanks, Gris!"  
  
"See you all tomorrow!"  
  
"Bye!"  
  
The CSIs all went their separate ways, grateful for the chance to rest after their long day. As Catherine passed the front desk, she smiled at Elisabeth and held up her keys.  
  
"Sorry about that Catherine," Elisabeth said.  
  
"It's no big deal," Catherine said and went out to her car.  
  
  
  
"Hi, Lindsay. How are you? … Good, I'm glad … Really? That's great! … See you soon, sweetheart. … Bye." Catherine hung up the phone and sank back on the couch. At least Lindsay had a good day. Even though it wasn't very late, Catherine decided to go to bed. Out of habit, she walked into her room and turned on the light. The smoke from the previous night's fire had blackened her room and the bed she had planned to sleep on was no longer available. Coughing, she backed out of the room. Catherine decided she would sleep in the guestroom. Recalling the intruder from the night before, she decided to check the house. First, she checked all the doors: locked. The windows were also all locked. Reassured, she extinguished all the lights and went to bed, falling to sleep immediately.  
  
Click. Catherine sat up in bed. Her front door had just been unlocked. The door squeaked open and Catherine heard footsteps. Catherine pinched herself on the arm. It's a dream, it's only a dream, she thought fiercely, trying desperately to make the intruder disappear, but she knew she was awake. This wasn't a dream. Slowly, Catherine got out of bed. She was surprised to find she had never changed out of her work clothes. I guess I was more tired than I thought. The creak of floorboards brought her quickly back and she found herself suddenly wide-awake. She grabbed the gun from the small of her back and crept towards the door. She opened it slowly, but it only revealed darkness. Whoever was in her house had excellent night vision. Luckily, Catherine's eyes had already adjusted to the dark by this time and she had the advantage of knowing where all the furniture was. Creeping along the wall towards the kitchen where the floorboards had creaked, Catherine held her breath. She found the light switch that would illuminate the kitchen and the living room and took a deep breath. Just as she flicked the switch, the front door slammed. Not again! Catherine's mind screamed. She raced to the front door. The knob was locked, but the bolt wasn't. Catherine knew she had locked both of them before going to bed. Turning on the outdoor lights, Catherine looked out the window and slid the bolt back into place. Outside, all was still. Still watching her front yard, Catherine picked up her cell phone and dialed Grissom.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Grissom?" He actually sounded tired.  
  
"Catherine? It's the middle of the night!"  
  
"You call me in the middle of the night all the time!" Catherine protested.  
  
"I know, but I'm your supervisor –"  
  
"Someone was in my house."  
  
"When?" He was awake now.  
  
"Just now. Whoever it is has a key, Grissom. They have to have a key. They couldn't get in otherwise. I checked all my locks before I went to bed and I heard them unlock the door!"  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Catherine said, suddenly taking in her breath. Whoever it was had come for a reason. What did they want this time? "Grissom, they didn't do anything. They didn't know I was awake. Why did they leave?"  
  
"I don't know Catherine. Are you sure everything's okay?"  
  
"No, I'm not sure of anything."  
  
"Do you want the police over there?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you need anything?"  
  
"Just stay on the line, Gil. I'm going to check the house. If something happens…" Catherine trailed off.  
  
"Are you sure you don't want someone over there?"  
  
"I'm fine. Okay, I'm turning on all the lights. I'm checking the kitchen where I heard floorboards creak. There's nothing here – oh my gosh."  
  
"What is it Catherine?"  
  
"A note." Catherine whispered.  
  
"Catherine? Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah. Grissom, it says…it says…" 


	11. Delivery

1 Chapter Eleven: Delivery  
  
"Catherine? What does the note say?" Grissom asked slowly.  
  
"It says," Catherine answered faintly, "it says 'It is a big deal, Catherine.'"  
  
"I think so…but Gil, you'll never believe me."  
  
"Try me." His voice was calm and reassuring.  
  
"I – I don't think so. You won't believe it. You better come over here, Gil. And bring your kit; I don't have mine."  
  
"All right, Catherine. I'll be right there." Catherine knew he meant it, too; she could hear him moving around as he spoke and she heard his door close just before he hung up. Catherine calmed down a little and went back into the guest bedroom to change her clothes. She knew it was going to be another long day.  
  
Catherine grabbed her gun and tossed her hair slightly. I can do this, she thought, and stepped out of the room slowly.  
  
Click. Catherine's hand flew to her gun. Her front door had opened again. It's just Gil, Catherine said to herself, praying it was true. She walked out into the kitchen just as the front door shuts again. That wasn't Gil. Catherine was attempting to stop herself from hyperventilating. Someone had the key to her house. She had locked the door and they had opened it. It was the only explanation.  
  
Gun drawn, Catherine looked around to be sure the intruder – or intruders – were gone. She didn't see anyone, but a package on the counter caught her eye. A small box wrapped in brown paper laid on the otherwise cleared countertop. Her name was printed on the top with a bold black marker: "Catherine Willows."  
  
Her mind spun with procedure. Fingerprints. Handwriting. Catherine suddenly realized she was pointing her gun at the box. That won't do any good, she scolded herself. Not even if it's a – Her thoughts came to a screeching halt. Bomb. It wasn't a bomb. It couldn't be a bomb! It… Then what was it? Catherine forced herself to think rationally. She put her gun down on the counter. Then she pulled on a pair of gloves and, with shaking hands, picked up the package. Catherine carefully ripped the tape off the ends of the package. Inside of the brown paper was a nondescript white box. Taking a deep breath, Catherine opened the box. Inside, she found another smaller box and a note attached to it. She unfolded the note. "It seems your kitchen was lacking one of these, Catherine."  
  
Click. The door again. Panicking, Catherine dropped the note and grabbed her gun, whirling around to face the intruder.  
  
"Why was your door unlocked?" Grissom was staring intently at the deadbolt on Catherine's front door. "I thought you locked your –" Grissom looked up, startled to see Catherine pointing her gun at his head.  
  
"Grissom! Don't do that to me!" Catherine put her gun down and ran one hand through her hair.  
  
"Sorry," Grissom said, opening the front door again and looking at the lock from the outside.  
  
"Grissom." Catherine's voice wavered slightly. "They have a key, Grissom."  
  
"What? Are you sure?" Catherine motioned towards the package on the counter.  
  
"What is it?" Grissom asked, bending down to pick up the fallen note, reading it carefully.  
  
Catherine removed the packaging and gasped.  
  
A shiny silver corkscrew sat nestled in the packing paper.  
  
  
  
Sara sat quietly in the break room, staring at the photos in her hand. The blood patterns had always looked peculiar, but Sara had just discovered why. The date, which was always written on the floor in blood and then cleaned up, was not the only peculiar thing. Near the date were letters. Sometimes one, sometimes two, but there were always letters. They were hard to see with all the blood splatter, but Sara could make out distinct letters. She took out a piece of paper and tore it into pieces, writing one letter on each piece. The letters had to spell something. Rearranging the letters in search of a word, a clue, Sara began to get frustrated. She hadn't gone home when Grissom had told them to, she had stayed to work on her little puzzle, and she was working on almost no sleep at all. Sara got up to grab some more coffee and wake up her brain a little.  
  
"Maybe I should go home and sleep like the rest of them," she mumbled to herself. As she sat back down, something clicked. Sorting the letters from the photographs, Sara found the clue she was looking for. It was incomplete, but it was still a clue.  
  
The torn bits of paper were carefully arranged to spell out "Isabele." There was an L missing, but Sara figured she might have overlooked it, and went back to the photographs.  
  
"Hey Sara, I thought you went home," Elisabeth said, walking into the break room.  
  
"Nah, I had to go over some evidence."  
  
"Tough case?" Elisabeth asked, pushing her long blonde hair out of her face and taking a sip of her coffee.  
  
"You might say that."  
  
"There's a package for you on the front desk. I don't know who it's from; it was there when I got back from my lunch break. I thought you left to go sleep, so I didn't want to bother you," Elisabeth explained as she walked out of the room and back towards the front desk.  
  
Frowning, Sara glanced at the pictures of the crime scenes, then at the lab, and then after Elisabeth. Slowly, she rearranged the letters.  
  
"Elisabe…" Sara frowned again and pushed her chair back from the table. Something was up, and she had no idea what it was. She gathered the pictures and the scraps of paper and went to get her package.  
  
Elisabeth was on the phone when Sara got to the desk. Elisabeth pushed a small brown package over to her. Sara picked up the box and searched for a return address or a postmark. There was nothing but her name, printed carefully in black marker: "Sara Sidle."  
  
"It was just sitting on the desk when I got back from lunch." Elisabeth had gotten off the phone, and was watching Sara inspect the package. Sara looked up in surprise when Elisabeth spoke, and something on the desk caught her eye.  
  
"Is that yours?" Sara asked, pointing at a plaid shirt folded up and laying on the end of the desk.  
  
"No, that was on the floor when I got back from lunch. Maybe it belongs to whoever sent you the package," Elisabeth suggested.  
  
"Maybe," Sara said, pulling gloves on and picking up the shirt. "Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome," Elisabeth replied automatically, not exactly sure what she was being thanked for.  
  
Sara went back to the break room and put everything on the table. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed Grissom. 


	12. Paper Work

1.1.1.1 Chapter Twelve: Paper Work  
  
"Catherine!" Grissom called as he hung up his cell phone. "We've got to get back to the lab. Sara's got something for us."  
  
"Coming!" Catherine cried from the bedroom where she was getting changed into clean clothes.  
  
Grissom packed up the rest of the evidence and double-checked all the locks on the house before they left for the lab.  
  
  
  
"Where's Sara?" Grissom asked Elisabeth as he passed the front desk.  
  
"I think she went to the lab or maybe she's in the break room…"  
  
"What've you got?" Grissom asked when he found Sara in the break room.  
  
"This," she said, motioning towards the new evidence.  
  
"The shirt…"  
  
"Yes, Grissom, the shirt."  
  
"Does it have the same rip? Is it the same fabric?"  
  
"Yep, this is the shirt."  
  
"But –"  
  
"I got a package and saw the shirt while I was at the front desk. That's the package. Elisabeth said both the package and the shirt just 'appeared' after her lunch break. Oh, and I found something in the pictures of the blood patterns." As she spoke, Sara laid the pictures out for Grissom and Catherine, who had just walked in, to see.  
  
"'Isabele?'" Grissom said, studying the pictures.  
  
"That's right," Sara said, and began rearranging the photos again.  
  
"Oh my gosh." Catherine gasped at the name now spelled out for her. "'Elisabe'…you don't think…"  
  
"I think there's something very suspicious going on here, that's what I think," Sara said.  
  
"You got a package, too?" Grissom said, noticing the brown box identical to the one delivered to Catherine's house.  
  
"What do you mean, 'too'?"  
  
"I got one," Catherine explained. "Inside was a…a corkscrew."  
  
Sara stared at the box silently for a minute. "Do you think I should open it?"  
  
"No, not yet. Bring it to the lab; see if we can get anything. And get the shirt, too."  
  
  
  
While the new evidence was being processed, Grissom, Catherine, and Sara went out to talk to Elisabeth.  
  
"Elisabeth," Grissom began, "there's a problem."  
  
"Something's wrong?" Elisabeth asked nervously, scanning their faces.  
  
"I'm afraid we need to speak with you."  
  
Elisabeth was getting nervous. She began cracking her knuckles. "About what?"  
  
"A case."  
  
"A c-case?"  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"My name? You know my name."  
  
"What was the name you were born with?"  
  
Elisabeth opened her mouth slowly. "I…I –"  
  
Grissom stared at her.  
  
"Isabelle Fielding," she whispered.  
  
  
  
"Elisabeth, did you legally change your name?" Catherine was questioning her officially now.  
  
"Not exactly…" Elisabeth looked at Grissom and Catherine and then towards the two-way mirror which hid Sara, Warrick, and Nick from sight. "I couldn't change it legally."  
  
"Oh really? Why not?" Catherine asked, already knowing the answer.  
  
"Well, I never really…existed…legally…"  
  
"Alright," said Grissom. "Who murdered your mother?"  
  
Elisabeth, amazed she had gotten away with such a flimsy answer, looked at Grissom in disbelief. "My mother? This is about my mother? That happened ages ago! It was settled. I just want to get on with my life. Do you have to bring this up?"  
  
"Yes. Who murdered her?"  
  
"Whoever burned the house down."  
  
"Now, Elisabeth, you know that's not true."  
  
"I – I just want it to be true, okay? I don't like the thought of a murderer and an arsonist both being on the lose." Elisabeth shivered. "I try to convince myself there's only one…even the police don't know what really happened!"  
  
"No, they don't. In fact, they thought that the same person who murdered your mother burnt the house down. So why do you think otherwise?"  
  
Elisabeth was caught off-guard.  
  
"Do you have any siblings, Elisabeth?"  
  
"Uh…a brother. He died."  
  
"Really?" Catherine asked, glancing at Grissom. Grissom nodded towards the two-way mirror and the door opened.  
  
"Isabelle? Is it really you?" Kyle stared at Elisabeth.  
  
"K-Kyle…"  
  
"Elisabeth, who is Kyle?"  
  
"Me!" Kyle exclaimed.  
  
"Shut up, Kyle," Catherine and Grissom chorused.  
  
"Kyle's my brother," Elisabeth said in a voice that was barely audible.  
  
"Oh, so he's dead?" Sara, who had come in with Kyle, asked Elisabeth.  
  
"I am not!"  
  
"Kyle!" Catherine, Grissom, and Sara said in unison.  
  
Elisabeth was staring wide-eyed at Kyle. "I really thought he was dead."  
  
"I'm not," Kyle pointed out helpfully.  
  
Elisabeth looked shocked and Catherine figured it would be the perfect time for the truth.  
  
"Elisabeth? Did you have another brother?"  
  
"Yes," she answered without hesitation, continuing to stare at Kyle.  
  
"Named?"  
  
"James."  
  
"Whatever happened to James?"  
  
"Mother locked him outside."  
  
"What? I thought he died! Where did he go?" Kyle interjected.  
  
"He left. He wasn't there when I went to let him in. I don't know what happened to him."  
  
"Who murdered your mother?" Grissom asked, getting back to the point.  
  
"I did."  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
"Come again?" Sara asked quietly.  
  
"I killed my mother."  
  
"Isabelle! I've been covering for you for years and years and you just up and tell them you did it?! What is wrong with you?" Kyle screeched.  
  
"They'd find out, Kyle. They always find out."  
  
  
  
Elisabeth's apartment was spotlessly clean and organized. Nick and Warrick stepped in carefully and looked around. They were checking for evidence that would connect her with the murders. She had admitted to killing her mother, but insisted she knew nothing about the "Corkscrew Murders," as the press was calling them, except what she had seen on the news. Nick went into the bedroom and Warrick headed for the kitchen. After only a few minutes Warrick had found something.  
  
"Hey, Nick! Check this out!" Nick came in from the bedroom.  
  
"Whoa," Nick said. "That's weird." Warrick began snapping pictures of the old wine cabinet, which was completely empty except for cobwebs and a small brown box full of shiny silver corkscrews.  
  
  
  
"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…"  
  
Finally, they had solved the case. Another serial killer behind bars. And yet, something didn't seem right to Catherine. As Elisabeth was led away for the murder of her mother and the murders of the four women, Kyle was being led away for arson – he admitted to setting his mother's house on fire to cover up the murder. But something wasn't right. Catherine had looked through Elisabeth's purse for the copy of her house key, but had only found the two keys to Elisabeth's things at work, one for Elisabeth's car, and one for her apartment. Someone still had a key to her house. Catherine shuddered. Nick, Warrick, and Sara had already left and Grissom had just finished some of his paper work and was going home, too.  
  
"Are you ever going to leave?" he asked as he watched her begin the paper work for the case.  
  
"Yes," Catherine said, forcing a smile. "I'm just going to finish these up."  
  
"Are you sure you're okay going home alone tonight?"  
  
"No problem," Catherine lied.  
  
"Is Lindsay okay?"  
  
"Yeah, she's having a great time. I don't think she ever understood why she has to stay over at her friend's, but I guess it's better that way."  
  
"See you tomorrow," Grissom said, and left Catherine alone to do her work.  
  
An hour and lots of paper work later, Catherine was fading, no matter how much coffee she had. She decided to go get some rest. After all, she reassured herself, it's all over. The murderer has been caught. She's in jail. On to the next case tomorrow. Repeating these somewhat happy thoughts, she drove home. It took all her energy not to fall asleep at the wheel. Rubbing her tired eyes, Catherine fumbled with the doorknob and pushed her front door open. She flicked the overhead lights on, and was suddenly wide-awake.  
  
A blond woman was sitting motionless on her couch. 


	13. Listen to Me

1.1.1.1 Chapter Thirteen: Listen to Me  
  
  
  
Catherine froze and stared at the motionless woman on her couch. The woman was seated facing away from Catherine, and she looked normal enough. But Catherine knew better. The blonde woman was probably dead.  
  
After a few minutes Catherine's brain began to work again. Taking a deep breath, Catherine slowly took out her gun. Checking the room carefully, she saw that nothing else was out of place. She took a silent step towards the couch and realized she was shaking.  
  
"Hello?" Catherine tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but was unsuccessful. But that didn't matter; no one answered her anyway. Pointing her weapon at the blonde woman, Catherine stepped in front of the couch.  
  
Catherine expected the blonde woman's face to be torn and bloody, like all the others, but this one was worse. Most of her skin was gone from her face, leaving only thin bloody ribbons covering muscle and bone. Her lips were torn clear off her face, and her bloody grin seemed to be directed to Catherine, mocking her. The stench of death hit Catherine all at once, and she backed away, covering her mouth and trying desperately not to throw up. She backed into the wall and fumbled at her pocket for her cell phone.  
  
"Catherine." The voice was low and ominous. Catherine was so surprised to her another voice in the house that she dropped her gun and her cell phone onto the floor.  
  
"Shit," Catherine hissed through clenched teeth as she scrambled to pick up her gun and phone.  
  
The voice continued. "Catherine, you were wrong. You were wrong so many times. You are supposed to catch criminals, Catherine, not let them run free! Now Catherine, I felt I should warn you that I'm not kidding. I think that this should shock you into working again, don't you? Do your job, Catherine. But be careful. I'm not afraid of you. Are you afraid of me?"  
  
Catherine had backed herself into the corner of the bay window and was desperately trying to locate the person attached to the voice. Her eyes were flitting from corner to corner and her gun was jumping around from door to door.  
  
"I'm not here, Catherine. I think you of all people would know that. Listen to me, Catherine. If you don't want your friends at the office to have to deal with a double homicide, you'll listen to me. Duck, Catherine. Duck now!" The voice ended abruptly in static. Catherine ducked. She didn't even think about it. She just ducked, and reached out and grabbed for her cell phone. Nothing happened, but Catherine didn't dare get up. Her fingers just barely reached her cell phone, and she slid it quickly across the floor and opened it, dialing Grissom automatically.  
  
"Yeah?" Grissom had obviously been asleep.  
  
"Grissom!" Catherine hissed, not sure whether the killer was hiding out nearby or not.  
  
"Catherine?"  
  
"There's a dead body in my living room! And I think the killer is –" The rest of Catherine's sentence was cut off by gunfire and the shattering of glass. Catherine screamed and covered her head as the window above her was shot in and she was showered with broken glass.  
  
"Catherine? Catherine, are you okay? Hold on Catherine!" Grissom's voice was faint and Catherine barely heard it as she braced herself for another attack. But none came. The only sound was that of faint static from somewhere in the room. Catherine didn't get up.  
  
"I sure hope you listened to me, Catherine. Good-bye." The voice was broken up by static this time and Catherine knew that its owner was not in the room. Breathing a sigh of relief, Catherine slowly sat up to survey the damage. Glass clinked to the floor, falling from her hair and clothes. The night quiet was suddenly shattered as another window was shot in. Catherine dove to the floor again, but the glass wasn't falling anywhere near her this time, so she looked up to find the target of this new round of gunfire.  
  
The blonde woman's head was askew and she was no longer sitting up. Blood was dripping onto the couch and floor from the mangled body. Catherine heard a car speeding away and she grabbed at her cell phone again, dialing 911. The operator told her someone was already on the way, and to just hang tight. That somehow did not make Catherine feel any better. Her hands had both been cut up since she had put them over her head, and she was grateful she had worn long sleeves that day. Finally, she heard sirens approaching, and she knew it was safe to get up from her huddled position on the floor.  
  
Grissom arrived soon after the ambulance and police, dragging Sara, Warrick, and Nick behind him. They were grumbling about missing sleep, but when they saw Catherine, they stopped. Catherine's hands weren't badly hurt – in fact, they only needed the care of a few Band-Aids – but she was clearly shaken by her close encounter will the killer. A killer who, it seemed, knew her quite well.  
  
Although they had just gotten off work and could, technically, give this project to the other shift, the CSIs did not. This case was eating away at all of them, and they had to solve it themselves.  
  
Sara and Warrick were about to begin working on the outside of the house, trying to determine point of entry, but Catherine called them back.  
  
"He used the front door."  
  
"What?" Warrick asked, aghast.  
  
"He has a copy of my key or something. Come on." Catherine motioned for them to join Grissom and Nick inside.  
  
"Why didn't I know about this?" Warrick asked.  
  
"I didn't know either," Sara added.  
  
"This case needs to be solved. Today. Process the scene and then everyone meet back at the office with all the evidence and information you have. We're going to get this guy," Grissom said, but even he didn't sound sure.  
  
  
  
The table was overflowing with all kinds of evidence – pictures, samples, data, lab reports.  
  
Grissom was the first to speak. "This case has gotten a bit out of hand. Our personal involvement in this case has hindered our abilities as forensic scientists. The smart thing to do would be to hand all this evidence over to the day shift – "  
  
Puzzled looks appeared on the faces of those surrounding the table.  
  
"– but there's not a chance in hell of that happening, so –"  
  
The looks of betrayal, confusion, and bewilderment vanished and were quickly transformed into smug grins and quiet chuckles.  
  
"– what we have to do is go over this evidence until everyone knows everything and we have figured out how to catch this guy. Now, let's go over it from the beginning."  
  
The next two hours were spent hunched over evidence and reviewing every detail. From the first crime scene to the last, nothing was left unsaid. Everyone knew everything. Now it was time to crack the case wide open, and the investigators were more than eager to do just that. 


	14. Filling the Gaps

1.1.1.1 Chapter Fourteen: Filling the Gaps  
  
"Now," Grissom concluded the recap, "what did we miss? What's the next move?"  
  
"We need something more to link the victims," said Sara slowly, thinking it through. "We could check their backgrounds more thoroughly; look for similar family situations, purchases, travel, schools…anything that the killer could know them from."  
  
"Good," Grissom said. "What else?"  
  
"We could check with the people who found the bodies again. Like at the first hotel…the maid, the room service…"  
  
"Hey," Warrick said, cutting Catherine off. "What about security cameras in the hotel? We could check for possible suspects entering the hotel."  
  
"And the security cameras here," Nick added. "We could see how the package and the shirt 'appeared' on Elisabeth's desk."  
  
Grissom nodded slowly. "All right," he said. "I'll go back to Catherine's and see what the police have turned up so far. Let's get to work."  
  
  
  
Sara headed straight off to the computer. She already had gathered some background information on each victim. Sara peered intently at the computer screen. Each woman had blonde hair and each was born on March 26. The eye color and year of birth seemed irrelevant to the killings. Clicking again, Sara sighed and brushed her hair out of her face. She began checking credit card accounts for recent purchases. Car payment, groceries, clothes, make- up. Sara ran through the items on Grace Whittier's account, looking for something that stuck out or matched with the others' purchases. Dinner, more clothes…Ah-ha! Airplane tickets to Vegas! Smiling at her find, Sara quickly checked the other victim's information. All had recent flights into Vegas, but none from the same airport and only two on the same airline. Sara's feeling of triumph faded quickly, and she searched for more.  
  
  
  
Nick was sitting in the break room drinking coffee and shaking his head when Greg popped in.  
  
"What's going on, man?" Greg asked, as he grabbed his own cup of coffee.  
  
"Did you know our security cameras are down?" Nick asked dejectedly.  
  
"Yeah, the wiring's messed up. They've been down for three days, but they're supposed to be back by tomorrow. Something wrong?"  
  
Nick sighed. "I wanted some footage. A murder suspect would've been on tape."  
  
Greg's eyes widened. "In the office? A murderer? Are you sure?"  
  
Nick nodded and studied his coffee for a minute. "This sucks," he announced, and walked out of the break room.  
  
  
  
Warrick had the security tape from the night of the first murder. He had footage of all entrances and exits to the building as well as to the top floor where Tamara Richards' room had been. Warrick studied the tapes carefully. The pictures were hard to see, and at times static took over and you couldn't make anything out. But Warrick didn't see anyone suspicious. He identified all the people show in the tapes - hotel staff and people who were identified as guests. There didn't seem to be anyone out of place. The static on the tapes was too intense to see if anyone was exiting the building by walking on their hands. The static also blocked out the room service and the maid who had found the body. In fact, the static seemed especially heavy at the time that the murder had occurred…  
  
  
  
"No one's touched the body Grissom," Brass said as soon as he saw Grissom approach. "Looks like her wallet is in her purse, though. Maybe we could get an ID."  
  
Grissom nodded, and approached the body slowly. Someone had already taken pictures of the scene, and the police hadn't found anyone suspicious lurking nearby.  
  
A purse was sitting on the couch beside the victim, and Grissom looked it over carefully before giving it to Brass. Brass pulled out the wallet and sifted through the contents.  
  
Grissom studied the victim. She was blonde, and her face was mostly gone. When the window was shot in, the victim was hit with both glass and bullets. Retrieving a bullet from the side of the victim's head, Grissom noticed something in her mouth. Packing the bullet carefully away, Grissom pulled the thing out of the victim's mouth. It was a small speaker.  
  
"Grissom, we've got an ID!" Brass called. "Carol Benton, 18 years old, born March 26, 1984. Blue eyes."  
  
Glancing at the victim's disfigured face, Grissom saw brown eyes. The last victim's real eyes were green, he remembered, puzzled. "Call Sara," he told Brass. "She's doing background checks."  
  
As Brass dialed, Grissom looked around Catherine's house. Aside from the broken windows and the dead body, everything was clean. There was only blood on the couch, and Grissom suspected it hadn't even been there before the victim was shot at through the window.  
  
  
  
At the computer, Sara leaned back and stretched. Now instead of just being tired, she was tired, cranky, and sore. She was pushing back in her chair, ready to give up and go get some coffee, when she accidentally hit a button. Glancing up at the screen quickly to be sure all was well, something caught her eye and Sara froze, a small smile creeping across her face. She had Elizabeth Martin's credit card account on the screen, and Sara saw three little words that couldn't have made her happier. "The Regal Hotel." 


	15. The Hotel

AN: I decided to add a bit about Grissom to Chapter 14, so I'll put it here too, so you don't miss anything. Anyway, this chapter's longer, so enjoy!  
  
  
  
  
  
"No one's touched the body Grissom," Brass said as soon as he saw Grissom approach. "Looks like her wallet is in her purse, though. Maybe we could get an ID."  
  
Grissom nodded, and approached the body slowly. Someone had already taken pictures of the scene, and the police hadn't found anyone suspicious lurking nearby.  
  
A purse was sitting on the couch beside the victim, and Grissom looked it over carefully before giving it to Brass. Brass pulled out the wallet and sifted through the contents.  
  
Grissom studied the victim. She was blonde, and her face was mostly gone. When the window was shot in, the victim was hit with both glass and bullets. Retrieving a bullet from the side of the victim's head, Grissom noticed something in her mouth. Packing the bullet carefully away, Grissom pulled the thing out of the victim's mouth. It was a small speaker.  
  
"Grissom, we've got an ID!" Brass called. "Carol Benton, 18 years old, born March 26, 1984. Blue eyes."  
  
Glancing at the victim's disfigured face, Grissom saw brown eyes. The last victim's real eyes were green, he remembered, puzzled. "Call Sara," he told Brass. "She's doing background checks."  
  
As Brass dialed, Grissom looked around Catherine's house. Aside from the broken windows and the dead body, everything was clean. There was only blood on the couch, and Grissom suspected it hadn't even been there before the victim was shot at through the window.  
  
  
  
At the computer, Sara leaned back and stretched. Now instead of just being tired, she was tired, cranky, and sore. She was pushing back in her chair, ready to give up and go get some coffee, when she accidentally hit a button. Glancing up at the screen quickly to be sure all was well, something caught her eye and Sara froze, a small smile creeping across her face. She had Elizabeth Martin's credit card account on the screen, and Sara saw three little words that couldn't have made her happier. "The Regal Hotel."  
  
  
  
Chapter Fifteen: The Hotel  
  
Moving with a newfound energy, Sara checked all the other victims' accounts, including the latest victim, Carol Benton's, and, sure enough, they had all stayed at The Regal Hotel recently. Leaning back in her chair, Sara allowed herself a smile.  
  
  
  
Catherine and Warrick were in the lobby of The Regal Hotel, trying to locate Ellen Simpson, Edward Jones, hotel security, and the manager they had seen in the room that night.  
  
"I think they're avoiding us," Catherine said to Warrick, as yet another employee scurried by them, avoiding their eyes.  
  
"Well, we'll just have to go to them then," said Warrick as he disappeared behind a door marked 'Employees Only.'  
  
"Warrick!" Catherine hissed, looking around, afraid that security had seen. But no one was paying any attention to them, so Catherine quickly followed her colleague.  
  
Inside the door was a simple hallway with four unmarked maroon doors lining the walls. Warrick, of course, was no where to be seen.  
  
After reciting some choice words under her breath, some directed at the hotel, some at Warrick, Catherine grabbed hold of the doorknob closest to her and opened the door.  
  
In the dim light that was shining in from the hallway, Catherine could see it was an office. It seemed to be unoccupied, so she closed the door and crept forward to see if there was a nameplate on the desk, using a small flashlight to illuminate the room. There was an odd smell in the room; a familiar smell, but Catherine couldn't place it. The black leather luxury office chair was high-backed and turned away from her, so that suddenly all the movies she had seen where an evil villain sat in a chair like that came rushing back to her. She could clearly see the evil sneers and hear the evil cackles as the chairs in the movies all turned around at once, revealing the corrupt mastermind behind it all.  
  
Catherine's hand was at her gun. Don't be silly, she scolded herself. It's just a chair. In the back of her mind, though, she thought on or maybe that's just what I'm supposed to think.  
  
Her hand remaining on her gun, Catherine resumed her search for a nameplate.  
  
"Jillian Rivers, Owner of The Regal Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada," the gold plate nestled on the desk read.  
  
That's funny, I don't remember a woman at the crime scene other than the maid. Catherine's thought was interrupted by the squeak of hinges.  
  
The door was opening.  
  
  
  
Sara flicked open her cell phone, a smile still on her face, and dialed Warrick. She remembered him saying he was going to the hotel. As the phone rang, she checked the dates and times the rooms were rented, and if they were all as expensive as Tamara Richards' was.  
  
  
  
Catherine couldn't move. Not only was she breaking and entering, she was also in a dark office with an evil rotating office chair. Just as someone was about to step into the room, Catherine heard a cell phone ring. She saw the door jerk, as if the phone had scared the one opening it as much as it had scared her. She tried to make out the words, but the voices were quiet. She crept closer to the door.  
  
"That's great, Sara. I'll tell Catherine as soon as I see her. Keep me posted. Bye."  
  
Catherine flung the door open.  
  
"Hey, Cath. I was just looking for you. Sara just called. She said that –"  
  
"Warrick, we are not exactly doing something legal here! Come on, we're going to find the manager."  
  
"All right, that's fine with me, Catherine. If they'll talk to us," Warrick added. "Sara said that all the vics stayed here recently. Credit card payment."  
  
Catherine slid the door open and they slipped into the lobby again, unnoticed by patrons and employees.  
  
"Where did you go?" Catherine asked Warrick accusingly.  
  
"When?"  
  
"When you went in there!" Catherine hissed, gesturing towards the 'Employees Only' door.  
  
"Oh, then. Supply closet, nothing special. You?"  
  
"I only went in the owner's office where you found me."  
  
"The owner? No kidding."  
  
"Jillian Rivers. Ever heard of her?"  
  
Warrick thought a moment. "No…What are you thinking?" He asked, noting the look on Catherine's face.  
  
"I didn't see her at the murder scene. If I were the owner, I would be at the scene, trying to keep it as quiet as possible. It's bad for business when a serial killer strikes at your hotel."  
  
"The manager was there," Warrick pointed out.  
  
"I know," said Catherine. "But still…"  
  
  
  
Sara was digging for more similarities between the victims, but nothing was coming up. The hotel rooms were not the same in any way – different prices and locations. The only similarities between the victims were their birthdays, their hair, and the fact that they had stayed in a room at The Regal Hotel. She dialed Catherine.  
  
"Willows," Catherine answered.  
  
"Hey, Cath, did you find the manager yet?"  
  
"Not yet, why?"  
  
"Well, there's something about that hotel… It's the victims' only connection. The murderer has to have a connection to the hotel too. I'm thinking –"  
  
"Employee," Catherine finished for her. "Me too."  
  
"They need to be brought in for questioning."  
  
"I know," Catherine sighed. "But they are all doing a very good job avoiding us."  
  
  
  
Catherine hung up her cell phone. "It was Sara," she informed Warrick and filled him in on the conversation.  
  
Just then, the phone at the front desk rang. Catherine and Warrick looked at each other briefly and then walked to opposite sides of the front desk. The manager Catherine remembered from the crime scene ran into the lobby and picked up the phone.  
  
"The Regal Hotel," he answered, sounding a lot cheerier than he looked. He arranged a reservation and then hung up the phone, sighing.  
  
"All right," he said. "What do you want?"  
  
  
  
The members of the hotel staff that had been present at the crime scene were brought in for questioning. There were only five of them: the night maid, Ellen Simpson; the room service worker, Edward Jones; the manager, Cameron Blaine; and the two security guards, Travis Conner and Carl Johnson.  
  
"Look, we don't know anything," Cameron Blaine announced, wringing his hands. "Can we go? We have to run the hotel!"  
  
"Keep your shirt on," Warrick said to the manager. "We just need some more information about the hotel to continue our investigation."  
  
The manager looked pained. "Information?"  
  
"Yes, information. We would like to know about your security systems, who has access to what, and so on."  
  
"Um…I don't know…" The manager fidgeted in his seat. "I'd have to ask the owner."  
  
"The owner?" Catherine asked innocently.  
  
"Jillian Rivers. She's on vacation, and we haven't heard from her."  
  
"When did she leave?"  
  
"The morning of the murder…we called her when it happened, but she hasn't called back. I just don't know what to do! She handles press and public relations, and I don't want to say the wrong thing and loose my job! I thought she would call. She's the type who would call –"  
  
"Mr. Blaine," Grissom interrupted. "What about your security systems?"  
  
"I – I don't know much about that. You'd have to talk to Conner and Johnson about that." He motioned towards the security guards. Grissom looked at them. Conner spoke first.  
  
"We have nine security guards in all, three per shift. Adams was sick that night…he's the other one on our shift. We have security cameras, but we've been having problems with them. We're getting them fixed next week. Something with the wiring…I'm not sure. We usually don't have any problems at all. One of us watches the monitors, one of us watches the front door – the only door that is unlocked from the outside, and one of us patrols for any trouble. There was nothing that night…"  
  
Johnson said, "We didn't see anything unusual. I was covering the front door and Conner was watching the monitors. No one came in who wasn't registered."  
  
No one spoke for a minute. "We'll need a guest list as well as an employee list," Grissom said, breaking the silence. "You can go. Tell the owner to contact us as soon as possible."  
  
"Yes…yes of course, sir. Thank you," Mr. Blaine blubbered, and they left to go back to the hotel.  
  
  
  
"Sara," Grissom called as he walked down the hall.  
  
"Yeah?" Sara poked her head out of the break room.  
  
"We need to check on the owner, Jillian Rivers. She's supposed to be on vacation, but no one's heard from her." Sara nodded and headed back to the computer. "Catherine?" Grissom said.  
  
"Yep?"  
  
"Somehow the killer is connected to the Fielding family. Get Kyle and Elisabeth to look at photographs of the hotel staff and guests to see if they recognize anyone. We've got two hours before our shift ends."  
  
  
  
"Jillian Rivers, age 45…Owner of The Regal Hotel…blonde, brown eyes…" Sara mumbled to herself. She looked at Jillian Rivers' credit card accounts. "Plane ticket to Hawaii – lucky! …hotel reservations…" Sara thought a moment and then picked up the phone and dialed the airline Jillian Rivers had bought her ticket from. They put her on hold, so Sara idly clicked through the rest of the information about Jillian Rivers. She's single, no kids, lots of money…oh, no…  
  
"May I help you?" a cheerful voice crooned through the phone.  
  
"Um, yes. Jillian Rivers was supposed to fly to Hawaii last week, but she hasn't been in touch, and I'm worried. Could you check and be sure she made her flight?"  
  
"Of course, dear, do you have the fight information?"  
  
Sara read it to her.  
  
"All right, hold on one minute," the woman said as she went to check.  
  
Sara looked at the screen again, but it hadn't gone away.  
  
"I'm terribly sorry, dear, but it seems she didn't make her flight."  
  
Shit. "Thanks so much, I'll bet she was late. I'll call and see if she was caught up at work." Sara hung up the phone and looked at the screen again. It was still there.  
  
  
  
"What exactly are we supposed to be looking for?" Kyle asked Catherine as she laid the photographs of the hotel staff out in front of him.  
  
"Just see if you recognize any of them," Catherine replied, placing the last picture on the table.  
  
Kyle picked up the pictures one by one, looked at each of them, shook his head, and passed them to Elisabeth. She looked at them and then placed them face down on the table. Kyle picked up the last picture and studied it longer than the rest. He leaned over to Elisabeth.  
  
"You think?"  
  
"No…impossible."  
  
"Not really…anything's possible."  
  
"I don't think he could do it."  
  
"Me either, but…"  
  
"I suppose we ought to tell her."  
  
"We should."  
  
"You do it."  
  
"No, you. You've worked with her."  
  
"Exactly! She's angry with me already!"  
  
"And not with me?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Fine, fine. Hey, Catherine," Kyle called, looking up.  
  
Catherine, who had been attempting to follow the conversation, said as calmly as possible, "Yes?"  
  
"We believe we recognize this man, but we cannot be sure. He looks like someone we…used to know."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Our brother."  
  
  
  
"What is this, a freakin' family reunion?" Catherine cried, slamming her coffee mug down on the counter.  
  
"Calm down, Catherine." Warrick advised. He picked up the picture of the room service worker, Edward Jones, who Kyle and Elisabeth believed to be their brother, James. "It might be him. He's got access to the hotel." Warrick shrugged. "Let's just bring him in."  
  
Sara rushed in, dragging Nick and Grissom.  
  
"What's this about, Sara?" Grissom asked.  
  
"This!" Sara cried, shoving a printout in Grissom's face. "Jillian Rivers never boarded her plane that day. She hasn't been heard from, and – and –" Sara stopped, trying to catch her breath.  
  
"And she was born on March 26," Grissom concluded.  
  
"Wonderful," Catherine said "Just great."  
  
Suddenly, she remembered the office at the hotel. How easily the doorknob had turned. How dark and quiet it was. The dark black chair, turned away from the door. Catherine's eyes widened as she realized what the smell was. "Oh, shit." 


	16. Doors

Chapter Sixteen: Doors  
  
"Catherine? What is it?" Grissom asked.  
  
"I.um, er.nothing! I. I." Catherine's eyes flittered from one person to another. "I have to talk to Warrick," she said, pulling him out into the hallway.  
  
Nick raised his eyebrow slightly and Sara opened her mouth, but no one followed Catherine and Warrick.  
  
Out in the hall, Catherine hissed at Warrick, "She's dead!"  
  
"Excuse me?" Warrick said, taken aback. "Who?"  
  
"Rivers! Jillian Rivers! The owner!"  
  
"Catherine."  
  
"In her office.a chair. A chair that.and the smell! The smell!"  
  
Warrick's eyes widened; he knew the smell, too.  
  
"We've got to get her! Let's call Brass and go - "  
  
"No!" Catherine hissed, grabbing Warrick's arm. "We went into her private office illegally and we can't just admit it!"  
  
"What are we going to do then?" Warrick demanded. "We cant' just leave her there!"  
  
"We - we." Catherine stopped and took a breath, trying to calm herself down. "We have to find a way to get someone into her office."  
  
"Well," Warrick began thoughtfully, "she is missing, right?"  
  
"Right." said Catherine, not sure what he was proposing.  
  
"We could search her office in an attempt to locate her or figure out where she might have gone."  
  
"Alright, but do you think the manager will go for that?"  
  
"Sure," Warrick replied gravely. "When we tell him the Rivers fits the profile."  
  
They glanced into the break room. Three pairs of eyes were staring intently at them, trying to follow the conversation. Catherine met Warrick's eyes and walked back into the room. The three colleagues they had left looked at them expectantly.  
  
"We should begin a search for Rivers," Warrick said after a moment of uncomfortable silence.  
  
"She fits the profile and she's missing."  
  
"Care to enlighten us as to the nature of your private conversation?" asked Nick.  
  
"No," answered Catherine shortly.  
  
"Alright," Grissom said. "We'll look for her. What do you suggest, Catherine?"  
  
"Well, we could search her home and her office for any clue as to where she went prior to her flight."  
  
"Fine," said Grissom, and he picked up his cell phone. Brass arrived in ten minutes.  
  
"The manager, Blaine, agreed to file a missing persons report."  
  
"Shouldn't someone close to her do that?" Nick asked.  
  
"Yes, but she doesn't have any family and there are no friends we know of," Brass said.  
  
"Blaine told us that Rivers worked the night before and that's the last time he saw her. He left before she did; she was doing some paperwork - bills or something, he's unsure. No one saw her after nine o'clock that night, and she was never at the airport," Grissom informed the group. "We're going to her office first."  
  
  
  
Blaine was in the hotel lobby waiting for them, along with Conner, the security guard. "I'll let you in," Conner said, holding up a large key ring.  
  
"You must be able to open every door in this place with all those keys," Catherine commented.  
  
"Yup," Conner confirmed. "Only use about three though. They're mostly for emergencies - a safety net of sorts."  
  
"Of course," said Catherine as they approached the 'Employees Only' door.  
  
"Here we are," said Conner, pushing through the door. He reached out with a key to unlock the office, but the door was already slightly ajar.  
  
"That's odd," Conner said. "She keeps this office locked up tight."  
  
"Don't touch anything," Grissom said quickly. "This might turn into a crime scene pretty fast."  
  
Slipping into the room, the three CSIs all stopped suddenly. The smell. Grissom flicked on the lights. The office looked normal enough, but.  
  
Everyone's attention was on the chair. They all had a pretty good idea what was there, but no one wanted to see it. Brass stepped forward first and went around the desk to see if anything - anyone - was in the chair. He slowly walked over to the chair. He let out his breath.  
  
"Nope," he said simply.  
  
"No?" Catherine asked, aghast. I know she's here! The smell! She has to be here!  
  
"Good," Blaine said. "What a relief! I was so worried about her! I mean, sometimes she can be so." Blaine kept chattering on, but Warrick was looking past him, into the hall.  
  
"Conner, what's behind the rest of these doors?"  
  
"The two manager's offices and a supply closet. Not much."  
  
"We'll need to see them," Warrick said.  
  
"Okay." Conner backed out into the hallway and unlocked the next door. "Megan Conroy's office. She's in charge of the staff. She's out of town this week too."  
  
"A manager and the owner out of town at the same time?" Grissom asked.  
  
"Megan had a death in the family and Ms. Rivers couldn't change her plans. We don't normally do things this way," Blaine explained quickly.  
  
Warrick had slipped into the office and he reappeared in the hallway. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he reported.  
  
"Supply closet," Conner said, unlocking the next door.  
  
Catherine went in. "Nope," she said from inside. "Nothing." She reappeared in the hallway.  
  
"Mr. Blaine's office," announced Conner, unlocking and opening the last door.  
  
Grissom slipped into the room quietly and the rest of the group remained silent in the hallway. Several minutes later, Grissom appeared. "Mr. Blaine," he began, "how much time do you spend in your office?"  
  
Blaine blushed slightly. "I don't use it much. My home office is much - for lack of a better descriptor - homier, and I prefer to work there. Plus, I'm usually very busy during the day and I don't like to stay late like Ms. Rivers. I'd rather go home. I haven't been in my office for months now."  
  
"I hope you can back that statement up," Grissom said.  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"Ms. Rivers is dead. She is seated in your office chair."  
  
  
  
"Mr. Jones," Sara said, "what is your first name?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"What is your first name?" Sara repeated slowly, as if talking to a very young child.  
  
"Edward.I'm sure you knew that."  
  
"Do you have your birth certificate?"  
  
"No.I've never had my birth certificate. I had a bad family life."  
  
"Right." Sara said skeptically. She knew you needed your birth certificate as proof of identity for just about everything. "But, for the sake of argument, if you did have your birth certificate, what would it say?"  
  
"I'm afraid I don't understand the relevance."  
  
"Let me put it this way, Mr. Jones. Did you ever change your name?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What was your birth name, Mr. Jones?"  
  
"I only changed my name to separate myself from my family! I've done nothing wrong! I don't even know why I'm here!"  
  
"You didn't answer the question," Sara pointed out.  
  
"I demand a lawyer."  
  
"Fine," Sara said, exasperated. She looked at the mirrored window, which she knew hid Nick as well as Elisabeth and Kyle. "Mr. Jones," she began, "would you consider talking to someone else before your lawyer arrives?"  
  
Mr. Jones just looked at her.  
  
"Like, for instance, one of your siblings?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You do have siblings, don't you?" Sara asked.  
  
"I - "  
  
"Would you like to speak with them?"  
  
"I - "  
  
"They would like to speak with you."  
  
"I - "  
  
"Mr. Jones, could you please answer my question?"  
  
"I - "  
  
"Mr. Jones."  
  
He nodded his head slowly. Sara gestured for Nick to bring Elisabeth and Kyle in. The door opened and they walked in quietly. Mr. Jones just stared at them with a kind of dull awe.  
  
"Hello, James," said Elisabeth.  
  
"Isabelle?" he whispered. He turned to his brother. "Kyle?"  
  
"Yep," Kyle said. "I can't believe it! After all these years! I thought you were dead!" He smiled at Edward, who just looked at them both blankly.  
  
"How long have you worked at the hotel?" Kyle asked.  
  
"Um, ten years," Edward mumbled.  
  
"Is it nice? I've never been there. Heard a lot about the place recently though."  
  
"It's a good working environment. Nice people."  
  
"Good, good. So, do you know anything about the murders?"  
  
"Sure, it's all over the news."  
  
"Doesn't it make you nervous to go to work?" Elisabeth asked.  
  
"Not really. I'm not in any danger, plus this is Vegas. There's always some psycho waiting in the shadows. I don't let it bother me any more."  
  
"It bothers me," Elisabeth mumbled.  
  
"They think the murderer works at the hotel. Does that bother you?" Kyle asked.  
  
"A little. I mean, I don't really know that many of the people who work at the hotel. I just know my boss, you know? I'm not very social."  
  
"Right."  
  
Sara and Nick both got up and left the room, leaving the three to talk among themselves.  
  
"I don't think he knows anymore than he's telling us," Sara said. "I'll go do a background check."  
  
Nick nodded and went to watch the Fieldings through the mirror.  
  
  
  
"I didn't kill her! I didn't do it! Please don't arrest me! I swear, I'm innocent!" Blaine screeched.  
  
"Calm down," Catherine spat, fed up.  
  
"We don't have evidence against you, Blaine. We can't hold you," Brass explained.  
  
"I didn't kill anyone!"  
  
"So you've said."  
  
"Brass, the lights?" Grissom called from the interior of Blaine's small office.  
  
The blood stains that were revealed showed plainly that the body had been dragged into the office. Following the patterns of blood out into the hall, Grissom found that the body had been dragged from Rivers' office into Blaine's.  
  
"Alright, Blaine," Warrick said as Catherine and Grissom looked for more evidence. "Who has access to your office?"  
  
"Um, well.I have a key, and security and janitorial staff members have a key. and Ms. Rivers did too. But that's all."  
  
"Mm," said Warrick, and he turned away from Blaine and went into Rivers' office. Carefully he dug through her desk drawers until he found what he was looking for - a key. The label was a small piece of masking tape that said, in red marker, 'Blaine.' The key shone as if it had just be polished, and it probably had, Warrick reasoned, if the killer had used it to gain access to Blaine's office.  
  
"What - what's going on? What will happen to the hotel?!" Blaine cried.  
  
"I assume it will be temporarily closed so you can sort out the legal issues at hand," Grissom said.  
  
"C-closed?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Closed!" Blaine moaned, cradling his head in his hands.  
  
  
  
"Every room?" Sara asked in disbelief.  
  
"Yes," Grissom said firmly. "Now that the hotel is closed, we can search every room efficiently. If the murderer works at the hotel, it may be where he disposes of the evidence. Start with the offices. Guest rooms last."  
  
They went to work. They were determined to find something - anything - that would lead them to the killer. Sara was searching Blaine's office again and found a short black hair under the desk. Nick examined the carpet in Ms. Rivers' office. Warrick found a pink thread stuck in the doorjamb to Blaine's office. Grissom looked around the laundry room and found towels that had been soaked in blood before they were washed clean. Catherine checked the security room. She found wires that had been tampered with, as they suspected, and decided to check for fingerprints. Working carefully, Catherine gasped when she found a print near the wires. She'd hadn't been expecting anything because the killer usually wiped everything clean. Could it be? she thought. Is this him? The killer? 


	17. A Clue

AN: I could have sworn I fixed that format on the last chapter! Darn, now I have to go fix it. Review please! I'll update soon...I swear!  
  
  
  
Chapter Seventeen: A Clue  
  
  
  
"We've got a print!" Warrick called into the lab. He stepped inside and gave the evidence they had collected to Greg. "It's all you, man."  
  
Greg immediately scanned the fingerprint and set the computer to check it against the employee database from the hotel. Then he set to work on the hair recovered from Blaine's office.  
  
"Find anything?" Nick asked from the doorway.  
  
"Jeez, Nick! It's been five minutes!"  
  
"Fifteen," Nick challenged. "Come on, what about the hair? The thread? The print?"  
  
"Nick, just hang on, okay? These things take time. They aren't ready when you - " Greg was interrupted by the beeping of the computer, and both men rushed over.  
  
"Match!"  
  
  
  
"Gris, I seriously doubt - "  
  
Grissom held up his hand for silence. Sara rolled her eyes. They had been searching the hotel for hours, and Catherine, Nick, and Warrick had all left. Grissom was convinced there was something else there - Sara wasn't. Grissom had suggested she go dumpster-diving while he finished the guest rooms, but that wasn't her idea of a good time.  
  
"Grissom," Sara said again, a whine creeping into her voice.  
  
"Shh," Grissom replied, still not looking up. Sara heard a soft crack.  
  
"Find something?" Sara asked. "No? Too bad. I guess we'd better go - "  
  
"Good news or bad news?" Grissom interrupted, in usual Grissom-fashion.  
  
"Bad," Sara replied with a sigh.  
  
"We might be working overtime tonight."  
  
"Really? Are you sure that isn't the good news?"  
  
Grissom turned around. He held a corkscrew in his hand.  
  
"Where did you find that?!" Sara shrieked.  
  
"Under the floor."  
  
Sara's mouth gaped. "You pulled up the floor?"  
  
"There was a spot of blood on the floor. It's a hardwood floor."  
  
"Right."  
  
  
  
"You look happy," Nick greeted Sara as she strolled into CSI.  
  
"Yeah, we'll be working overtime tonight."  
  
"You found something?" Nick tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.  
  
"Yeah. Did you get a match on the print?"  
  
"What did you find?!"  
  
"Oh, nothing," Sara said, her eyes gleaming. "Just possible murder weapon."  
  
"You got the corkscrew?! Where is it?"  
  
"Grissom's already in the lab."  
  
  
  
Everyone was in the lab.  
  
"The print matched Travis Conner, a security guard at the hotel," Warrick announced.  
  
"So.it's not our killer? I mean, Conner is supposed to be working to fix the wires," Sara said.  
  
"Yes, but there was only one print. If he had been working, there would be a lot more, all over the place. I think someone tried to clean up after themselves and missed a spot."  
  
"Plus," Nick said, "if we could easily tell that the wires had been tampered with, wouldn't Conner notice and fix them?"  
  
"Maybe his print was there before - maybe it's old," Greg suggested from behind the lab equipment.  
  
"I don't know about that," Catherine said slowly.  
  
"I don't think so either," Greg replied. "Just trying to, ya know, keep an open mind." There was a pause as a computer beeped and the printer whirred. Greg snatched the paper.  
  
"Blood on the corkscrew," he announced. "I might be able to get something else, but it will take awhile."  
  
"Which room did you find it in, Grissom? I've got a guest list right here," Catherine said.  
  
"Room 106, first floor."  
  
Catherine checked the list, frowned, and checked it again. "No one was staying in that room. No one's been in that room for a month."  
  
"If it is Conner, he would have unlimited access. Was tehre anything else in the room?" Warrick asked.  
  
"No," Grissom said. "It was clean. Are there any other rooms that have been unoccupied for that long?"  
  
Catherine scanned the list. "104, 101, 109, 122, 113, 114, 130.Almost all the rooms on the first floor."  
  
"You said there were hardwood floors on the first floor?" Nick asked. Grissom nodded. "Well, there was carpet or tile in all the other rooms. Do you think they're remodeling?"  
  
Grissom shrugged. "We can check with Blaine."  
  
"The pink thread you found is just a pink cotton thread. The are a few black fibers stuck on it, but that's all I can give you right now," Greg said.  
  
"What about the hair?" Catherine asked.  
  
"It's male. It was dyed black - some guy just going gray."  
  
"It that your professional opinion?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Yep. Check it out for yourself," Greg said, gesturing towards his work.  
  
"I trust you. I'm going to go call Blaine about the wood floors."  
  
  
  
"Yes, we are remodeling," Blaine said, his voice full of pride. "The old wooden flooring is so difficult to maintain up to our standards. We decided to replace it with tile and carpeting."  
  
"What about the first floor? Is that the only one left unfinished?" Grissom asked over his speakerphone. Everyone had gathered in his office to hear the conversation.  
  
"Why, yes. We have been doing one floor, waiting a month, and doing another. We were supposed to begin the first floor, but we had some shipping difficulties. Several boxes of supplies did not arrive, but the company insists that they did! We are trying to sort it out, but with.recent events.we haven't been working on that."  
  
"When did you think the first floor would be completed?"  
  
"Before everything happened, we had scheduled it to be completed two weeks from now. With the delay of supplies, we thought maybe several months, but now."  
  
"Are the rooms on the first floor still available to guests?"  
  
"Oh, yes. We just don't like to use them. I mean, they are our worst rooms right now, since everything else has just been redone, so we try to keep the new rooms filled first, you see. But we do have some special-needs patrons who have stayed on the first floor recently."  
  
"I see. Thank you, Mr. Blaine."  
  
"Anytime, anytime," Blaine said and Grissom hung up the phone.  
  
"Boxes of supplies." Catherine murmured under her breath.  
  
"What?"  
  
"When I checked the supply closet, there were three large boxes stacked in the far corner."  
  
"So?" Nick asked. "It is a supply closet."  
  
"But they could be the 'missing' boxes," Catherine protested.  
  
"And what if they are just boxes of toilet paper or something?" Nick countered.  
  
"We could at least check," Catherine said, exasperated.  
  
"The dumpsters," Sara said suddenly. "I never checked the dumpsters!"  
  
"Alright," Grissom said, "we're going back. The are three dumpsters in the back, so three of you have dumpster duty."  
  
"Three of us? What about you?" Sara asked.  
  
"There are some benefits of being supervisor," Grissom said with a smile.  
  
  
  
"Oh no," Catherine mumbled. They were approaching the hotel and they could see blue lights flashing. "That is not a good sign."  
  
"Let's hope no one ruined our crime scene," Grissom said as his beeper went off. He didn't bother checking it, and they got out of the car.  
  
"Grissom!" Brass called. "That was fast."  
  
"We got light speed installed. What happened?"  
  
"We've got another blonde one."  
  
"Homicide?" Grissom said with a hint of surprise.  
  
"Yeah, but this one's.different. You'll see," Brass said and led them towards the alley behind the hotel.  
  
"Well," Catherine said glumly, "at least no one ruined our crime scene."  
  
"In fact, they gave us a whole new one." 


	18. Every Little Bit

AN: sorry it takes me so long to update! it's terrible...right, anyway, here's the next chapter, for those of you who hung around to see if I would ever finish this! thanks to everyone who reviewed! My computer is having format issues (more than normal.) so tell me if something is being strange. Or if I spelled something wrong, etc.  
  
  
  
Chapter Eighteen: Every Little Bit  
  
"Ester Benson, 66." Brass held up a small purse covered in rhinestones. "They found the purse next to the body."  
  
"Who called it in?" Grissom asked, surveying the scene before them. The victim was between two of the hotel's dumpsters and there was blood on the ground and the dumpsters.  
  
"Doorman from the next building heard a commotion, called the cops."  
  
"This isn't the same MO as our serial," Catherine said.  
  
Brass nodded. "We know. The birthday isn't even the same. But the eyes were removed and there are towels and bleach beside the vic."  
  
"You think the doorman interrupted our murderer?"  
  
Brass shrugged. "That's your job. You guys check it out."  
  
The victim was slouched between the two dumpsters. Blood stained her brightly colored cocktail dress. Her hair, dyed a startling yellow, was in disarray and stood on end. Catherine snapped pictures of the blood splatter and bottle of bleach and small pile of towels that had been dropped in front of the dumpster. Grissom carefully lifted the victim's head to examine the face - or lack thereof. As with the other victims, the flesh was torn from the bone. Her eyes were gone.  
  
"We're missing the eyes," Grissom called over to Catherine. "Let me know if you find them - or the replacements."  
  
"Nothing yet, but I'll keep my eyes open," Catherine said with a slight chuckle.  
  
"Catherine." Grissom began, but decided to ignore her joke.  
  
"Hey guys," Nick called from the end of the alley. Sara and Warrick were with him.  
  
"What took you guys so long?" Catherine asked. "We've been here for a while. I thought you were right behind us."  
  
"We were," Sara said. "And then we were behind some news vans."  
  
"Then we had to find somewhere to park, and then we had to get through the crowd."  
  
"Fine," Grissom said. "I need someone to process this crime scene with me. Sara? Catherine and Warrick, why don't you go check the boxes in the closet? Nick, since you can't check in the dumpster yet, why don't you help us with this scene?"  
  
"Beats dumpster diving," Nick murmured. Catherine and Warrick left to check the supply closet as the coroner came to get the body.  
  
  
  
"You know, Cath," Warrick began as they walked towards the main entrance, "these boxes are probably nothing."  
  
"I know," Catherine said. "I just can't overlook it."  
  
"Gut feeling?" Warrick asked, glancing over at her.  
  
"You could say that," Catherine said with a shrug. "Do we have keys to get into this place?"  
  
"I don't know," Warrick said. "We should..."  
  
"It doesn't matter - look, there's the security guard, Conner," Catherine said, pointing to the man who stood just outside the police line.  
  
"Conner," Catherine said as they approached him. "We need your keys."  
  
"My keys?" he asked, bewildered.  
  
"Is there a problem?" Warrick asked.  
  
"No, I just... Never mind, here they are," Conner said, handing the keys to Warrick.  
  
Catherine and Warrick silently entered the deserted hotel.  
  
"Conner was acting strange," Catherine said.  
  
"Do you think it was him?"  
  
"I don't know...aren't there all kinds of restrictions on security guards? Background checks, and all that?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
Catherine sighed. "Let's just go check the supply closet."  
  
Warrick unlocked the door and they stepped into the large room. Flicking on the lights, Catherine glanced around quickly, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Leading the way to the back corner, Catherine showed Warrick the unmarked boxes.  
  
"Should we open them?"  
  
Warrick shrugged. "I don't see why not." He reached into his pocket, retrieved a small pocket knife, and neatly cut the tape on the boxes. He opened the flaps to reveal all sorts of flooring supplies for both carpet and tile floors.  
  
"I guess your hunch was right."  
  
"Fingerprints?" Catherine suggested, and began to dust immediately.  
  
  
  
Outside, Grissom, Nick, and Sara had finished processing the scene without much luck. Sara had discovered a partial footprint from someone who had stepped in the blood, but the print was pretty smudged and she couldn't make out any treads. No fingerprints were found, and the corkscrew and eyes were still missing. Sara and Nick knew the only thing left to do was check the dumpsters.  
  
"Aw, man," Nick complained. "I can't think of any other job that requires you to hunt around in a dumpster."  
  
"Try harder," Sara joked, "I'm sure there's at least one. How about an elementary school janitor? Kids throw retainers away all the time. You'd have to find those."  
  
"I'd make the kids find 'em. This is disgusting."  
  
"And we need to find that corkscrew. Keep digging," Grissom said from his position outside of the dumpster.  
  
"Why don't you come in and join us?" Nick suggested. "You could even have the third dumpster all to yourself!"  
  
"Tempting, but no. I've got to go talk to Brass."  
  
"I think I've found something!" Sara called from her dumpster. She held up the container for a better look. "Yeah, it's the eyes alright."  
  
"What color?"  
  
There was a pause as Sara examined the jar. "Uh, brown. What color were this vic's eyes?"  
  
"Blue," Nick said, "but the last vic's eyes were brown. Find anything else in your dumpster paradise?"  
  
"Not yet, but I'm still looking."  
  
  
  
"Jackpot," Catherine said. "There's a full set of prints on this side of the box."  
  
"I've got a couple of partials," Warrick said. "You know, a lot of people have touched these boxes."  
  
"I know," Catherine said. "But every bit of evidence helps. Plus, there's a security camera in the hallway outside. We might be able to find the tape with these boxes on it."  
  
"Security cameras have been faulty. And if it is Conner, he knows where every camera in this place is. Even if it isn't Conner, the guy probably knows anyway."  
  
"Stop being so negative. At least we're trying."  
  
"I know...Hey Catherine, why would this guy try and halt the remodeling just because of one corkscrew? That seems a bit much to me."  
  
"You think there's something else on the first floor."  
  
"Well, I think we should at least look," Warrick said with a grin.  
  
  
  
"People throw away some really interesting things," Nick commented as he held up what appeared to be a perfectly good red high heel. Sara and he had been combing through the garbage for over an hour. After Sara's initial discovery of the eyes in a jar, Nick had found two corkscrews, and Sara had found one.  
  
"I doubt the hotel threw away the corkscrews," Sara pointed out. "I mean, they don't appear to be broken. They were probably used in the murders."  
  
"There's no blood," Nick said.  
  
"The killer cleans everything," Sara said, peering into the corner of the dumpster. "Nick, I think I've found something."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm not sure...blood, definitely. There's some other stuff, too - maybe the eyes. Come here and take a look," Sara called, getting down in the dumpster for a closer look. Nick got out of his dumpster and joined Sara in hers. "Can you see anything?" Sara asked. "I can't tell. It looks like he ditched the stuff in the corner of the dumpster, knowing it would probably fall to the bottom."  
  
"I can't see anything either," Nick said with a sigh, "but we're going to have to get it out."  
  
  
  
"What are we going to do?" Catherine asked. "Pull up all the floorboards in this place?"  
  
Warrick shrugged. "Grissom said there was a spot of blood on the floor where he found the corkscrew, right? Let's just look around for something like that, and see what we find."  
  
"Alright," Catherine agreed, and opened the door to the first room on the first floor, room 101. Catherine turned on the overhead lights, and they looked closely at the floor. The two CSIs examined the corners or the room, but found nothing. Warrick shrugged and suggested they move to the next room. They didn't find anything in the first five rooms, and in 106 they saw where Grissom had found the corkscrew. They continued down the hall without any luck until room 111.  
  
"Warrick," Catherine said as they were examining the baseboards, "this guy's not stupid. He cleans everything. We shouldn't be looking for blood. There's not going to be any. Maybe we should just rip up the whole floor. They are remodeling, after all."  
  
"They're installing over these floors, Catherine," Warrick pointed out. "Grissom found blood."  
  
"Yeah, but that was a mistake - a one-time thing. It probably won't happen again."  
  
"So what should we do?" Warrick asked. "We can't tear up all these floors."  
  
"We could," Catherine insisted. "But you're right. We don't have enough manpower to do it, and Blaine would probably have a heart attack at the thought."  
  
"Well, we've got to do something. There might be evidence hidden under here. We can't just ignore it!" Warrick walked across the room quickly, and as he did a board squeaked under him. He stopped, and turned to Catherine. "I guess we could do that," he said with a slight smile, and immediately began to pull up the board he had stepped on. The board came up relatively easily, and Warrick shone his flashlight into the hole. "It's just some papers," he told Catherine, and pulled them out.  
  
There were only eight sheets of paper, and scanning them quickly, Catherine found that they all had information about Grace Whittier. "She was one of the victims. What was he doing, collecting all the information he could about them? There's her credit card information, her address, social security, travel log... The killer was tracking their every move. He must have been planning this for months. Sick-o. Do you think they had any idea?"  
  
Warrick shrugged. He was walking around the room, checking the other floorboards for squeaks or hollow sounds. Catherine checked the loose board for fingerprints. Finding none, they backtracked through the other rooms to do the same thing before moving on. In room 105, they found the same type of papers about Elizabeth Martin.  
  
Catherine decided to check the loose board in room 106, where Grissom had found the corkscrew, for fingerprints. "I don't know if Grissom checked or not, and that was the room where he was sloppy." Catherine found a partial on the side of the board. "I don't know if that's enough for anything," she sighed.  
  
They moved on, through the rest of the rooms on the first floor. In room 113, they found information on Tamara Richards; in room 120, there was information about Antoinette McPherson. There were two loose floorboards in room 121, and both had information on Jillian Rivers, the owner of the hotel.  
  
"This is her report card from seventh grade!" Catherine cried as they scanned through the piles of information. In room 125, they found a plastic bag full of bloodied hotel towels and in room 129, they found information on Carol Anderson. Room 130 was the last room on the first floor, and they didn't find anything in it.  
  
"So, whenever a woman comes into the hotel that's blood and born on March 26, he starts keeping tabs on her? Finds out all about her and tracks her movements?" Catherine asked.  
  
"Sure looks that way," Warrick said as they left the hotel.  
  
"It doesn't make any sense. Why do it? And what does this have to do with the Fieldings?"  
  
"I guess that's what we still need to find out." 


	19. All of It

AN: hi everyone! I'm so close to being done! it's so exciting!!! this is the first fic I'm actually going to finish! yay for me! okay, enough of that. right, so, the thing is I don't know if I'm going to have a lot of time to write, so I figure I'll just post short parts quicker and torture you more. or something. basically, I have two more scenes after this one. I think. that's the plan anyway! review please!!! I'll love you forever!  
  
Chapter Nineteen: All of It  
  
"The killer is smart. Many of the things we found appear to have been planted to divert our attention. Put that evidence over here," Grissom said, pointing at the end of the table. The CSIs had gathered yet again to dissect and discuss all the evidence they had discovered.  
  
"The flannel shirt was planted in the office to link Isabelle to the piece found at the apartment. The blonde hair, which is Isabelle's, was also to implicate her. The gloves found at Catherine's had Greg's fingerprints on them."  
  
"That's what I don't understand," Sara said. "Why go to the trouble of getting the gloves when that was the only piece of evidence against Greg? The killer didn't do a good job of framing him."  
  
"I don't think that was the point." Catherine paused, thinking. "He was trying to prove he could get close to us without our knowledge. He sent us packages, planted Greg's used gloves, and got a copy of my house key. He was trying to prove that he's smarter than us."  
  
"How did he get your key, Cath?" Warrick asked.  
  
"I've been thinking about that. Remember the day I couldn't find my keys? The killer obviously can get into this office without arousing suspicion, so he just came in and stole my keys, made a copy, and left them on the floor where Elisabeth - Isabelle - found them."  
  
"I can't believe he could get in here that easily. This place is crawling with cops twenty-four/seven."  
  
"The security cameras were down, so everyone was probably trying to get them back up..."  
  
"What other evidence do we have that may be linked to the actual killer?" Grissom asked.  
  
"Basically all we have is a black hair and a pink thread," Nick offered. "The corkscrews at Isabelle's apartment are the same kind that is used in the hotel, that was sent to Sara and Catherine, and that you found under the floorboards, Griss. And that was under that Bonsai tree."  
  
"What about the stuff you found yesterday?"  
  
"The papers we found just show that these murders are all connected and they were premeditated. There was definitely planning involved in all the murders, except, possibly for the last one. We found no information on Ester Benson, and her birthday is different than the others'."  
  
"We'll get to that later," Grissom decided. "Did you get anything on the partial print you found?"  
  
"Greg said he'd page me right away."  
  
"What about the dumpsters?"  
  
"Well, we found the jar of old eyeballs. Nothing of interest - no prints, no weird substances...unless you count the spaghetti sauce that got on the lid from the garbage. The eyeballs from the vic were thrown into the dumpster, so the killer probably was interrupted. Nothing on them either, just the vic's blood."  
  
"Hey guys," Greg called from the doorway. "Thought I'd pop by and deliver the news myself. The tests came back on the towels Catherine and Warrick found under the floor. The blood was Jillian Rivers'. The partial print you found was a match with Travis Conner, the security guard."  
  
"Thanks, Greg," Catherine said.  
  
"Anytime," Greg said with a smile and disappeared towards the lab. 


	20. Daddy Dearest

AN: darn writer's block. Hey, if anyone knows how to get bold and italics to show up, please tell me - I still can't get it to work! Thanks for the reviews everybody, especially those of you who have been following this from the beginning (which probably isn't very many since I take sooo long to update!!) thanks for reading guys!  
  
Chapter Twenty: Daddy Dearest  
  
  
  
"Hello Catherine, how lovely to see you again."  
  
"Hello Kyle," Catherine said flatly.  
  
"In search of some answers, or are you just here for a friendly visit?"  
  
"I'm afraid I have to ask for your help again."  
  
"Don't be afraid!" Kyle smiled. "We don't bite!"  
  
Catherine didn't smile. "We're trying to figure out how the murderer is connected to you. The victims' birth dates are significant to your family, and the killer tried to frame Isabelle. He obviously knows your family well. Any ideas?"  
  
There was a long pause. Kyle and Isabelle sat silently, deep in thought.  
  
"There's another victim," Catherine said quietly, sliding a photograph across the table. "She was killed yesterday in an alley beside the hotel."  
  
Kyle reached for the picture, and hesitated. "Is this a picture of her before...?"  
  
"She was alive when it was taken."  
  
Kyle picked up the photograph, and surprise flickered across his features for a moment. He showed the picture to Isabelle, and her eyes went wide.  
  
"This woman...she looks very much like our mother," Isabelle said in a quiet voice. "If you look closely, you can tell it isn't her, but at first glance the resemblance is uncanny."  
  
"Do you know anyone who could have done this?" Catherine asked.  
  
"No...I can't think of anyone who knew anything about our family. Mother was so private and secretive. Hardly anyone knew the truth about Kyle's eye," Isabelle said.  
  
"Who did know about it?"  
  
"Mother, Isabelle, James, our father, and, of course, me," Kyle listed slowly. "Some of the neighbors, like your family, probably suspected something strange, but no one knew anything for sure. And no one told. It was just another skeleton, swept into the closet."  
  
"Your father? You've never mentioned him before."  
  
The siblings were silent for several minutes. "He left," Isabelle whispered finally. "That night."  
  
"You never saw him again?" Catherine asked gently.  
  
"No. He hated Mother and the way she treated us, but he never did anything more than glare at her," Kyle said, his voice stiff and uncaring. "I guess that night he'd had enough. When we got back from the hospital, he was gone. All of his things, his truck - everything. It was like he'd never been there. We never heard from him again."  
  
Isabelle was staring at her feet. "No, that's not true." Her voice was so low that Catherine could hardly hear her.  
  
"What?"  
  
"A couple of months ago, I got a phone call. When I picked up, I heard was a man's voice saying 'It's all her fault, it's all her fault' over and over again. I tried to talk to him, but he just kept repeating it. I didn't know who it was. Then, a week later, I got another call. It was the same man's voice, but this time just said 'She's alive. She's here,' and hung up." Isabelle was on the verge of tears. "I thought it was just a prank call! You know, some drunk college guys messing around, trying to scare me. I got caller ID installed on my phone because I was getting paranoid. I got a call again, about two weeks before the first murder. He said...he said, 'I'm stronger now. She will pay for what she's done.' My caller ID read the Regal Hotel. I gathered my courage and asked who was calling, and he said, 'it's me, baby, it's me. Daddy's here. It will be all better now. Don't you worry, sweet thing.'" Tears were running down Isabelle's face, but she continued to talk. "I didn't know what to do. I didn't think it was really him...I didn't know if he was alive or dead, but I knew he couldn't have found me. The call scared me, but I didn't think...I didn't know...Then, the night of the first murder, the phone rang, but I didn't pick it up, I let the machine get it. It was him; he left a message. He said, 'I'm sorry, sweet thing, but she isn't gone. She will always be here, no matter what. We can't get away.'"  
  
"Is that the last time you heard from him?" Catherine asked in the ensuing silence.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Do you have any idea where he might be?"  
  
"No...I mean, the caller ID said The Regal Hotel, but other than that..."  
  
Catherine held up another photograph. "Do either of you know this man?"  
  
"No."  
  
"No."  
  
"Thank you for your help. Isabelle, is the message still on your answering machine at home?"  
  
"I'm not sure. It should be, I haven't deleted it. The caller ID information should be stored as well. You can look if you'd like."  
  
"Thank you," Catherine said, and left the room.  
  
  
  
Catherine retrieved the answering machine and caller ID box from Isabelle's apartment. The message was still on the machine, as Isabelle thought, and the caller ID box had recorded one call from The Regal Hotel. Since the caller ID system was very inexpensive, Catherine felt sure it only stored information for a certain number of calls, and then the information was deleted. The message from the machine was being analyzed, but it was faint and they weren't sure they could get anything at all from it. Warrick was trying to get the phone records to see which room the calls were from, and Sara was going over the guest list with Kyle and Isabelle to see if they recognized a name their father might be using.  
  
From Isabelle's information, Catherine felt sure it was the Fieldings' father who had committed the murders, however, she did not know who he was. At this point in the investigation, all the evidence pointed to Travis Conner, the security guard, and yet, there was no apparent reason for him to murder the women. The evidence pointed to Conner, but there was no motive. The person with motive would be the Fieldings' father, but that didn't make sense.  
  
"Unless..." Catherine thought aloud, her mind racing. She jumped up and hurried to the room where Sara was talking to the Fieldings. Sara looked up when she burst in.  
  
"None of the names sound familiar to them," Sara offered.  
  
Without acknowledging the comment, Catherine spoke to Isabelle. "What's your father's name?"  
  
"His name?" Isabelle repeated, her brow wrinkling. "I'm not sure..."  
  
"We only called him 'Father,' and our mother called him 'your father.' He was hardly home, and we were so young when he left..." Kyle added.  
  
"You don't know your father's name?" Catherine asked, incredulous.  
  
"I only know that Fielding was Mother's last name," Kyle said. "When they married, she refused to change it, so he took her name."  
  
"Are you sure you don't recognize this man?" Catherine asked, showing them the photo of Travis Conner again. Kyle took it and looked at it closely before shaking his head. Isabelle did the same.  
  
"Alright," Catherine sighed, and left the room. Sara followed her.  
  
"What are you up to?" she asked Catherine.  
  
"They think it's their father, when almost all the evidence points to Conner. I was just thinking, what if Conner is their father? But they don't recognize his picture at all, so I guess not."  
  
"That's actually not a bad idea," Sara said. "It would explain some things. I can try and find out the name of their father, if you want."  
  
"That'd be great," Catherine said, but she didn't expect much to turn up.  
  
  
  
Sara sat at the computer again, for hours, pouring over records. She was looking for more information on Diana Fielding, but so far she hadn't found any. Specifically, she was looking for her marriage license, which would tell her the name of the husband, but she had come up empty-handed. Her eyes were strained and burning from staring at the screen for so long. Stretching, Sara pushed back her chair and went to get coffee.  
  
"Any luck?" Nick asked when she walked into the break room.  
  
"Nothing," Sara said, frustrated, as she pour herself a cup of coffee. "It's like she was never married. I can't find any record of it at all. If she was a model, don't you think there would have been a huge wedding? She was married before her career went to hell, right?"  
  
Nick was silent for a moment, thinking. Sara swore under her breath about the coffee, which was too strong and too cold. "Do you know anything about her husband?" Nick asked.  
  
"Nope. The only thing the Fieldings knew about him was that he was a construction worker, and he worked all the time. He hardly saw his kids." Sara poured her coffee out into the sink and slumped into a chair.  
  
"A construction worker? A model and a construction worker? Surely her parents wouldn't have approved of that. She probably eloped, and kept her marriage a secret," Nick theorized.  
  
"But there's got to be some record of her marriage!" Sara said.  
  
"There probably is, but only in the town she was married in. If you bribe enough people, the paperwork can be filed away quietly."  
  
"I guess, but if she eloped, she could have been married anywhere."  
  
"If you were going to elope, Sara, where would you go?"  
  
"Las Vegas. Thanks Nick," Sara said, and dashed back to her computer.  
  
  
  
After another hour of searching, Sara found what she had been looking for. Diana Fielding had been married in a tiny wedding chapel, probably the cheapest and least romantic in town. Listed on the marriage license were the names Diana Fielding and Travis Conner. 


	21. Shoes and a Plan

AN: if anybody notices terrible grammar or something, tell me, k? I'm going to repost this story soon cuz I keep noticing places where I misspelled stuff like "can't" or "said" or something. R&R please!!  
  
Chapter Twenty One: Shoes and a Plan  
  
"Well, I guess we've got our guy," Warrick said, looking at the marriage license.  
  
"But in some ways, it doesn't make any sense at all," Catherine said. "I mean, the guy doesn't look much over forty, but he would have to be seventy! And why would he be using his real name? This killer is smart, remember? It might be a coincidence. Conner can't be a terribly unique last name."  
  
"Heck of a coincidence," Nick said.  
  
"Conner was at the scene last time. He was the only one there from the hotel," Sara said.  
  
"If you had just been caught murdering someone, would you stick around?" Catherine asked.  
  
"If I wanted to see how the investigation was going, sure," Warrick replied.  
  
"Whatever," Catherine said, annoyed. "Can we prove anything?"  
  
"Not really," Sara said. "We've got a couple prints, but nothing at one of the murder scenes. He can deny everything."  
  
"What about the black hair?" Nick asked. "Conner has black hair, right?"  
  
"Yeah, but there's no DNA."  
  
"We have a shoe print from the latest scene, right?" Warrick asked.  
  
"Yeah, but it's only a partial and there's no treads. It's worthless," Catherine sighed.  
  
"Not entirely. We could ask the hotel staff for their shoes - to clear their names. Blaine would be more than eager to cooperate, I'm sure."  
  
"So?" Sara asked, urging him on.  
  
"Well, if we get Conner to come here, maybe we can ask some casual questions. Or someone could come by and mention something about the Fieldings. Whatever. See where I'm going with this?"  
  
"Basically we're going to try and trick him into letting something slip?"  
  
"Sure thing. Maybe we can pull some more dirt on Conner and innocently mention something. You never know," Warrick said.  
  
"This'll never work," Catherine muttered, as Grissom went to call Blaine.  
  
  
  
"Well," Sara announced, "all I've found is that Conner had plastic surgery about five years ago. Major plastic surgery. I tried to call the surgeon, but he's been out of business for three years or so. Oh, and Conner went to night school for a while."  
  
"Plastic surgery to make him look younger?" Nick suggested.  
  
No one had time to answer him because just then Conner walked in, holding a large bag of shoes. Grissom had convinced Blaine that Conner should bring in the shoes because they needed to talk to him about what he had seen the night of the latest murder.  
  
"Mr. Conner," Brass said, "right this way." Brass led Conner to an interrogation room where Grissom and Warrick were waiting to print the shoes. Conner placed the bag of shoes on the table silently. Warrick opened a bag and began to remove the shoes and put them in a line across the table. Each pair was neatly marked with the name of the owner, and Warrick checked these names off on a clipboard. No one spoke while he was doing this.  
  
Finally, Warrick broke the silence. "I don't see your shoes here, Mr. Conner."  
  
Conner motioned to his feet. "I'm wearing them. I only have one pair of shoes for work, and I was supposed to be working today."  
  
"I see." Warrick moved back to the table and began to print the shoes that were lined up.  
  
"Mr. Conner," Grissom said, "I understand you were guarding the hotel the night of the latest murder?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Did you see or hear anything unusual, Mr. Conner?"  
  
"No sir. A woman came up and asked me for help with her parking meter around the corner. I went to help her, and when I returned, the police had arrived."  
  
"How long were you away from the hotel, Mr. Conner?"  
  
"No more than ten minutes, sir."  
  
Warrick leaned over and whispered something into Grissom's ear. Grissom nodded slowly, then turned back to Blaine. Warrick left the room and a few seconds later, Sara came in. She also whispered something to Grissom.  
  
"Mr. Conner," Grissom said. "We're going to need your shoes."  
  
Sara bent down and took the shoes off Conner. Instead of printing his shoes at the table like Warrick had done, she took them and left the room with them.  
  
"Where is she going with my shoes?" Conner asked, beginning to feel a bit anxious.  
  
"We ran out of ink. She had to take your shoes to the lab. Don't worry, she won't hurt them, Mr. Conner," Grissom said. "Now, are you sure you didn't see anything unusual that night? Why were you working if the hotel was closed?"  
  
"Blaine wanted someone to watch for vandals."  
  
"And you volunteered?"  
  
"It's my job," Conner answered.  
  
"Grissom, Brass?" Nick said poking his head in the door. "We've got a situation." 


	22. Shoeprints

AN: a million apologizes for the delay! This was supposed to be the last chapter but it didn't work out that way. One more... probably. Thanks for the reviews!  
  
Chapter Twenty Two: Shoeprints  
"Well, I guess we've got our guy," Warrick said, looking at the marriage license.  
  
"But in some ways, it doesn't make any sense at all," Catherine said. "I mean, the guy doesn't look much over forty, but he would have to be seventy! And why would he change his first name and not his last? This killer is smart, remember? It might be a coincidence."  
  
"Heck of a coincidence," Nick said.  
  
"Conner was at the scene last time. He was the only one there from the hotel," Sara said.  
  
"If you had just been caught murdering someone, would you stick around?" Catherine asked.  
  
"If I wanted to see how the investigation was going, sure," Warrick replied.  
  
"Whatever," Catherine said, annoyed. "Can we prove anything?"  
  
"Not really," Sara said. "We've got a couple prints, but nothing at one of the murder scenes. He can deny everything."  
  
"What about the black hair?" Nick asked. "Conner has black hair, right?"  
  
"Yeah, but there's no DNA."  
  
"We have a shoe print from the latest scene, right?" Warrick asked.  
  
"Yeah, but it's only a partial and there's no treads. It's worthless," Catherine sighed.  
  
"Not entirely. We could ask the hotel staff for their shoes - to clear their names. Blaine would be more than eager to cooperate, I'm sure."  
  
"So?" Sara asked, urging him on.  
  
"Well, if we get Conner to come here, maybe we can ask some casual questions. Or someone could come by and mention something about the Fieldings. Whatever. See where I'm going with this?"  
  
"Basically we're going to try and trick him into letting something slip?"  
  
"Sure thing. Maybe we can pull some more dirt on Conner and innocently mention something. You never know," Warrick said.  
  
"This'll never work," Catherine muttered, as Grissom went to call Blaine.  
"Well," Sara announced, "all I've found is that Conner had plastic surgery about five years ago. Major plastic surgery. I tried to call the surgeon, but he's been out of business for three years or so. Oh, and Conner went to night school for a while."  
  
"Plastic surgery to make him look younger?" Nick suggested.  
  
No one had time to answer him because just then Conner walked in, holding a large bag of shoes. Grissom had convinced Blaine that Conner should bring in the shoes because they needed to talk to him about what he had seen the night of the latest murder.  
  
"Mr. Conner," Brass said, "right this way." Brass led Conner to an interrogation room where Grissom and Warrick were waiting to print the shoes. Conner placed the bag of shoes on the table silently. Warrick opened a bag and began to remove the shoes and put them in a line across the table. Each pair was neatly marked with the name of the owner, and Warrick checked these names off on a clipboard. No one spoke while he was doing this.  
  
Finally, Warrick broke the silence. "I don't see your shoes here, Mr. Conner."  
  
Conner motioned to his feet. "I'm wearing them. I only have one pair of shoes for work, and I was supposed to be working today."  
  
"I see." Warrick moved back to the table and began to print the shoes that were lined up.  
  
"Mr. Conner," Grissom said, "I understand you were guarding the hotel the night of the latest murder?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Did you see or hear anything unusual, Mr. Conner?"  
  
"No sir. A woman came up and asked me for help with her parking meter around the corner. I went to help her, and when I returned, the police had arrived."  
  
"How long were you away from the hotel, Mr. Conner?"  
  
"No more than ten minutes, sir."  
  
Warrick leaned over and whispered something into Grissom's ear. Grissom nodded slowly, then turned back to Blaine. Warrick left the room and a few seconds later, Sara came in. She also whispered something to Grissom.  
  
"Mr. Conner," Grissom said. "We're going to need your shoes."  
  
Sara bent down and took the shoes off Conner. Instead of printing his shoes at the table like Warrick had done, she took them and left the room with them.  
  
"Where is she going with my shoes?" Conner asked, beginning to feel a bit anxious.  
  
"We ran out of ink. She had to take your shoes to the lab. Don't worry, she won't hurt them, Mr. Conner," Grissom said. "Now, are you sure you didn't see anything unusual that night? Why were you working if the hotel was closed?"  
  
"Blaine wanted someone to watch for vandals."  
  
"And you volunteered?"  
  
"It's my job," Conner answered.  
  
"Grissom, Brass?" Nick said poking his head in the door. "We've got a situation."  
The CSIs watched Conner through the one-way mirror.  
  
"Do you think it's working?" Nick asked.  
  
"Well, he looks a little uneasy, but he's not going to break down and admit anything," Grissom replied.  
  
"We should make him sweat it a bit longer," Warrick suggested. "Did you compare the shoeprint from the scene?"  
  
"Yeah," Sara said, holding Conner's shoeprint up. "It matches, I guess. These shoes are so old there are no treads, but the shape matches. They're fairly common shoes. I'm sure he can make up all kinds of excuses."  
  
"Is there blood on his shoes?" Catherine asked.  
  
"I'm on my way to check," Sara said, walking to the door. "I just wanted to see how it was going."  
  
On the other side of the glass, Conner fidgeted in his seat.  
  
"What's the plan?" Warrick asked.  
  
"I think we should ask him about the hotel again - let him know we are suspicious," Nick said.  
  
"Then we mention the prints - the one in the security box and the one on the floorboard. But don't mention the things we found under the floorboards yet. Let him wonder what we know."  
  
"Right," Warrick agreed. "You and Brass want to go in? We can watch from here."  
  
"Sounds good," Brass said, and he and Grissom slipped back into the interrogation room.  
"Mr. Conner," Brass began, "are you sure you didn't see anything the night of the murder?"  
  
"I told you! I was helping a lady with her parking meter! I know I should have seen something or heard something, but I didn't! Mr. Blaine is already mad at me for abandoning my post!"  
  
"We found you fingerprints in the security camera box. Were you tampering with the cameras in the hotel?"  
  
"I'm a security guard. I was trying to fix the cameras."  
  
"And what about your fingerprint on a floorboard on the first floor?"  
  
Conner looked perplexed. "Maybe I bent down to pick something up. I don't know!"  
  
"It was on the edge of the board. Why were you taking up floorboards?"  
  
"Oh! Mr. Blaine asked me to help take up the floorboards one night. For the renovations, you see. The hotel was behind schedule already, so he asked me to help. Turns out, our delivery didn't come in, so I had to put the floorboards back in case we got a handicapped guest."  
  
"Why didn't you use another room on the first floor for the guests and leave that one? It just created more work for the hotel."  
  
Conner thought for a moment. "I guess you're right. Doesn't make sense now that I think about it. But Mr. Blaine was pretty stressed about it. He probably wasn't thinking straight."  
  
"Alright," Brass said slowly. There was a knock at the door, and Sara poked her head in.  
  
"Guys?" She held up a folder.  
  
"If you'll excuse us," Brass said to Conner. Conner fidgeted in his seat and nodded silently.  
"His shoes don't have blood on them," Sara said, as soon as the door to the interrogation room had closed. "But I noticed something else." She took out a picture of the bloody shoeprint from the crime scene. "See how the toe and sides of the shoe are barely there? It's like they weren't pressed down all the way. The shoe was probably too big for whoever was wearing it. Then their feet wouldn't press the edges down for a good print."  
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"Why don't we have Conner walk in his shoes to make a print? Then we'll see if the prints are the same."  
  
"It's worth a shot," Brass said, taking the shoes from Sara.  
"You want my shoeprints? Why can't you just do the same thing you did with those?" Conner asked, gesturing in the direction of the bag containing his co-worker's shoes.  
  
"This way we'll have a...better comparison," Sara replied, inking the bottom of his shoes.  
  
"So why doesn't everybody else do it?" Conner said stubbornly.  
  
"You're the only one here," Sara snipped at him.  
  
"But...Oh, whatever. You're the expert," Conner grumped, walking carefully on the paper Sara had set out. "Is that good?"  
  
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Conner." Sara looked carefully at the prints, but saw immediately that they were pressed down firmly the whole width of the shoe. "No one else was at the hotel when the last murder took place?"  
  
"No. I already told you that."  
  
"You're sure? No one was there, even for a minute?"  
  
Conner thought a moment, his brow furrowed. "Wait a second...Mr. Blaine came by early in the evening. He said he needed some papers from his office."  
  
"Did you see him leave?"  
  
"Um...you know, come to think of it, I didn't. He must've gone out the back entrance. It's closer to the parking lot."  
  
"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Conner. We'll be in touch." 


End file.
